Behind Blue Eyes
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Emily Fornell needs something from Gibbs - and amidst old secrets, hospitals, and plush baby dolls, maybe he realizes he needs something from her, too. Story set in canon that addresses Gibbs coping with his post-Coma trauma in a unique (and kinda soapy) way!
1. Prologue

.

* * *

_3rd February 2000_

* * *

It was a lot of hard work, having a baby, and though she'd read books and done research enough to disillusion her, the actual experience was still startlingly messy and humbling; she thought it more of an awkward, uncomfortable hassle than a miracle, and she wanted to burn each and every film that had ever made childbirth look glamorous or spotless – but that being said, labour and delivery aside -

She looked down at the baby nestled in the crook of her arm, running her hand over an unbelievably tiny, curled pink fist.

- it was worth it.

She was exhausted, and she felt exposed and a little anxious, but she wasn't tense; she thought she'd be more prone to irritation and snapping, after the ordeal, especially when it came to her husband's hovering – he had been a helicopter expectant father – but she was relaxed, more serene, in a nervous, content way, than she had been in quite some time.

She ran her hands lightly over the baby's knuckles again, and then puckered her lips delicately, making a soft, soothing noise. She was precious, sleeping so peacefully, but she had yet to open her eyes and look at her mother.

"What do we think?"

Earnestly, he asked, wringing his hands, grinning a mile wide, looking proudly from wife to baby.

Tobias Fornell leaned forward and kissed his newborn daughter's forehead. He sat back, sharing the side of Diane's bed, and cupped the baby's head in his hand protectively.

Diane lifted her shoulders, shrugging a little.

"It's not something to rush," she fretted. "But she needs a name."

"Hmm," snorted Fornell good-naturedly. "She'll get a half-assed name," he joked. "'S what she gets, for pretendin' to be a boy."

"Tricky little thing," Diane murmured, and then turned her nose up and swatted at Fornell. "Don't _swear_."

"Ah," he breathed out, waving his hand and rolling his eyes. "Look, look," he said, pointing quickly.

The baby squirmed, wriggling in Diane's arms, stretching out her hour-old arms. Her thin eyelashes twitched and twitched, and Diane caught her breath as she opened her eyes and stared straight up. The baby – peered at her silently, calmly, her mouth moving instinctively, and she fussed quietly, though her face hardly betrayed distress.

Diane's greeting caught in her throat, and she swallowed.

Oh, her eyes were so _blue_.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her mouth felt dry – and she was dizzy. For a moment, she closed her eyes, assaulted by a barrage of memories of her previous marriage – damn blue eyes – and then she was back, and she looked down at her daughter, swallowing again, and looked over – at Tobias, admiring the baby.

He whistled.

"Talk about some baby blues," he joked wryly, clearly proud of himself. He grinned, even prouder, and caught his wife's eye. "Emily?" he suggested, for the fifth time in an hour.

"Is it too common?" she muttered, distracted.

She bit her lip, while the little unnamed girl stared at her, watching her innocently, dependently. Diane looked back, trapped in the eyes – she felt a million things: she wished she wasn't so struck by blue eyes, and she was so happy to have this little girl, and yet somewhere, she felt bitter, that she was sitting here with Tobias –

It was on the tip of her tongue, spiteful – _Let's call her Kelly_ – and then she was horrified, ashamed that she'd thought it, and guiltily vindictive about how much it would hurt – her ex-husband to hear she'd moved on, and Fornell made her happy, and she had her own Kelly to obsess over.

But she wasn't cruel, and it was a cruel, cruel thought, and she hated that it had happened, to mar this day.

She looked down at her baby, this little creature, and her heart nearly stopped, because she thought of how - her ex-husband must have felt when he held Kelly for the first time, and how he'd felt years later when he'd lost her, and she suddenly was nauseated over how she'd nagged him and harassed him and pushed him to - get over it. She had an inkling, maybe now, of why he couldn't.

"Emily's classic," Fornell was saying. "Short, cute, can't make fun of it," he pointed out. He looked at her pleadingly. "C'mon, Diane, it was my grandmother's name."

She smiled. She forced herself to think in the moment. She shouldn't be thinking of that bastard, anyway.

"It's sweet that you love your grandmother that much," she remarked slyly.

He tried to look manly, but came off as sheepish, and shrugged hastily.

"Emily," he said again, gruffly.

Diane looked down.

"Em-i-ly," she murmured absently, still mesmerized by the blue eyes. She smiled hesitantly, felt something tighten in her chest.

Her eyes were just so – blue.

Diane glanced at Tobias through her eyelashes – at his greyish, light hazel eyes – there was blue there, wasn't there? And maybe somewhere in her brown-green genes, there was blue?

"You can pick her middle name," coaxed Fornell hopefully.

Diane took a breath.

"Keep with the theme?" she asked, looking at him. "My grandmother was Margaret."

"Emily Margaret," Fornell grunted. He nodded. He laughed. "Hey, E.M. Either way, we can call 'er 'Em'!"

Diane smiled at his amusement.

_Emily_ started twisting a little more aggressively, her face scrunching up as if she would cry. Diane lifted her knees, held the baby close, and shushed her softly. She bit her lip – Emily's blue eyes watered expressively, and Diane's stomach fluttered –

_No_, she told herself, impossibly stern: _no_.

Tobias whistled again.

"Those eyes, though," he admired proudly. "Bluest I ever seen."

They weren't the bluest Diane had seen.

She took a breath, and smiled, reaching for her hospital gown – _Emily_ needed to be nursed.

"All babies' eyes are blue," she told him smartly, remembering a movie she'd once seen. "They'll change – to hazel, like yours."

"Nah, I hope she gets yours," Fornell flattered, and Diane grinned, distracted from herself.

But Emily Fornell's eyes stayed blue.

* * *

_3 February 2000_

* * *

.


	2. 1

_**a/n:**_ _so - _Behind Blue Eyes_, a new sort of story! soap opera-ish plot, but hopefully not too soapy when it gets down to it. it's a story interwoven into canon, and it makes full use of canonical episodes from season 4-5, starting with **Season 4, episode 2: Escape. -** _meaning:_ Gibbs is still pretty freshly back from Mexico at this point, so heavy references to Hiatus 1 & 2 - note that any thing in italics is indicative of a past event / conversation. there are some progressions of time from chapter to chapter and within chapters; so this one ends, essentially, with the episode '**sandblast.'**_

* * *

The room was dimly lit, and small – the bulky presence of two full grown men amidst the dolls and stuffed animals and colouring books of a little girl made Emily Fornell's bedroom seem like a fragile doll house.

Tobias gestured, and snorted.

"I'd offer you the sofa, but I told Emily you were stayin' over and, ah, she insisted you take her room," he pointed to a carved wooden rocking chair, "even said you could sleep with her Raspberry Rum Tart doll," he added, smiling fondly.

Gibbs looked at the doll, silent, his shoulders stiff, and Fornell grit his teeth, watching, waiting.

"So, it was…four wives," he began without much ado, shrugging. He moved around to sit on one of his daughter's beanbag chairs, and Gibbs turned, tearing his eyes away from the freckle-faced magenta doll. "Unless there's anything else you want to tell me," Fornell half-asked.

Gibbs sat down heavily on the four-poster white bed. His palm rested heavily on the embroidered quilt.

"Somethin' you wanna know, Tobias?" he asked gruffly.

His eyes were blank, and betrayed no emotion. Behind that scruff he called a beard, Gibbs' face was even more expressionless than usual – guarded, completely controlled, except for the carved lines of age and war near his eyes and jaw.

Fornell lifted his shoulders – this wasn't a work conversation, this was just a conversation; between men who vaguely called themselves friends, when their colleagues weren't around to know they didn't actually hate each other. He'd offered his house when he'd heard about Gibbs' termites, as soon as he'd heard, because he couldn't think of where else the man would go – he was on the outs with that Director of his, and he wouldn't suck it up and ask one of his team.

"You had a family, Jethro," Fornell said bluntly. He was still reeling from that information – it had been Jenny Shepard who told him, when he'd come barging in to NCIS, thinking she'd fired him – and she had been furious, he remembered, angry just for lack of anything else to feel –

"_I didn't fire him, Agent Fornell, he turned in his goddamn badge."_

"_You sure you didn't push him to it?"_

"_Did you know he had a dead wife, and a dead daughter? He's unstable. He's better off drowning himself in Mexican beer."_

Somehow, Fornell knew she hadn't meant it.

"I know you like to play it close to the vest, but – hell, I was married to your second wife!" Fornell pointed out, exasperated.

In a rare moment when he'd spoken to Diane – he avoided that, since the divorce – he'd asked her, and she'd said that she knew, and it was the only time he'd seen her talk about Gibbs without sourness.

"_Yes. I knew. It's why we got divorced."_

"_You divorced him because his kid died?"_

"_I divorced him because he's still married to the dead wife." _

Gibbs ignored the implication that he was close enough to Fornell to tell him, and gave him a dry look.

"I tried to warn you, 'bout Diane."

"I know, I know, I didn't listen," Fornell muttered sheepishly. "If I did, I might still have a house with a guest bedroom for you."

He cracked a grin and turned, grabbing two juice boxes from Emily's secret stash on a shelf. He swallowed hard as he passed one to Gibbs, keeping the apple – Emily's favorite – for himself. He didn't think she'd mind – Emily had bigger problems than stolen apple juice, right now, and sitting here, in her room with Gibbs – he wanted to mention it.

He couldn't figure how to mention it, though, and Diane wanted to keep things on a small scale, until they had a clearer prognosis. Diane, though – she talked to her mother, and she had the support of her family; Fornell just had work – and he didn't know, considering Gibbs' past, if he'd be worth a damn when it came to talking about this kind of thing.

"I know it's not our usual stuff," Fornell snorted, poking a plastic straw into the juice box.

Gibbs did the same, smirking slightly, and drinking the juice thoughtfully.

Fornell decided – the case was a good subject to stay on; black and white, devoid of murky personal issues – Diane had been adamant that this not be a public spectacle, as she so oddly called it, and if she found out he was spilling secrets to Gibbs of all men, she'd go ballistic.

"So, we screwed up," Tobias muttered – had they put the wrong man in jail, all those years ago?

"Wait," Gibbs grunted. "See what Abby says."

"We screwed up," Fornell said bitterly. "Big time."

He shook his head, drinking apple juice – screwed up, and put an innocent man in jail, an innocent man who'd taken it upon himself to escape, and to threaten Emily Fornell – without knowing that Emily was already being threatened every second of every day by an unseen enemy; this former Petty Officer who they had thrown in the brig without a second thought had almost ruined Emily's big morning, and he'd prompted Fornell to manipulate Gibbs into staying in DC and helping him with this one –

Fornell wasn't kidding himself; he'd brought up Emily because he knew the threat to his daughter would resonate with Gibbs, and now, he looked at the man sitting on his daughter's bed and he regretted salting those wounds, because in this room, he was forced to think about how he'd feel if he were in Gibbs' place.

"Wasn't the first time we screwed up," Fornell remarked shortly. He tapped his finger against the juice box. "Not gonna be the last."

He was talking about the case, but he was thinking about Emily. This case was so time-consuming that it had been a godsend, a welcome relief from the fear that had been suffocating him for the past month – but Gibbs made him think of Emily, Gibbs and his dead daughter.

"My last," Gibbs said, his voice hollow. He met the FBI agent's eyes intently. "My last, Tobias."

"'Least we can still make it right," Fornell said, shrugging.

Both men fell silently to their juice boxes, and it was the most somber thing, two federal agents drinking fruit juice in a six-year-old's sanctuary.

Gibbs' chest felt tight, sitting in this room. It was nothing like Kelly's room, and yet every single bit of it reminded him of her – maybe because she was so fresh in his mind since the coma; maybe because it was pink – maybe because he was just so broken over losing her that the mere mention of a little girl was inseparable from Kelly in his mind.

He clenched his teeth on the plastic straw – could he sleep in this bed, with Raspberry Rum Tart watching him? He might be able to bear it, since it was Raspberry – not if it was Strawberry Shortcake; then he'd lose it.

Gibbs turned and looked at the easel by Emily's bed. She had clipped a drawing to it, a painting of her with long Rapunzel-like hair, and a bright sun in the sky.

"We're into Rapunzel right now," Fornell remarked.

Gibbs said nothing, but he thought Fornell sounded angry about that, somehow.

"Gibbs," Fornell began.

Gibbs turned to him warily, his jaw tight. He looked at him cautiously. Fornell tapped his finger against the juice box again, thinking of Emily; Emily's long blonde hair, Emily's day at My First Make-over, Emily with needles in her arms.

The words stuck in his throat; he couldn't tell Gibbs about this. Gibbs liked Emily. He didn't need it.

"Cat got your tongue?" Gibbs asked shortly.

Fornell set his jaw.

"What was your daughter's name?" he asked.

Gibbs didn't break eye contact. His knuckles whitened slightly, but he was still. He cleared his throat, and then rubbed his jaw tensely. He didn't know if it was easier, or harder, to mention Kelly and Shannon now – the coma had done a number on him, it had taken him time to regain his memory, to get back into the habit of a world where no one knew about them – except him.

"Kelly," he answered finally.

It would just be easier to answer, than to deflect – Fornell might drop it, this way.

Fornell didn't drop it.

"How old was she…?"

"Eight," he grunted, his face darkening.

He didn't want to talk about this.

Fornell nodded.

Kelly Gibbs had been two years older than Emily was now. He wondered – before he could stop the thoughts – if he'd see Emily to eight-years-old. He felt his chest tighten, and cleared his throat roughly, crushing the thoughts forcefully – _Emily_ was going to be fine.

He didn't need to sit here and try to shrink Gibbs and dredge up his past just to try and find some sort of understanding for himself. He shouldn't have thought he could try and get an idea, from Gibbs, of how he was going to feel – it was better to think positive.

Fornell stood, and toasted Gibbs with his empty juice box. He gestured at the oldest stuffed animal.

"Don't drool on that one," he warned dryly. "It's her favorite."

Gibbs looked over at the stuffed animal, staring at the faded and well loved, floppy panda with an unfathomable expression. He waited until he heard Fornell leave, and then he looked back down at his juice box and finished it off.

He looked up at Emily's ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars twinkled, and he raised the juice box to the heavens.

* * *

Fornell sat at the kitchen table, his cell phone near his elbows, his forehead in his palms. He'd been staring at the phone since he heard Gibbs shut Emily's bedroom door, considering whether or not it was too late to call – well, it was way past Emily's bedtime, but often she had trouble sleeping, now, and he liked to hear how she was after her doctor's appointments.

If he didn't get Emily, Diane would update him – he and Diane were doing a lot more civil communication these days, and while it cheered Emily's spirits to see them amicable, it created problems, too, because while they wanted her in a good mood – positivity was key, her doctors said – they didn't want her to think there was a reconciliation in the mix.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard with the heels of his hands, until he saw black spots.

He'd seen black spots the day this had started – the day they'd realized something was wrong. Black spots, because it had started with an accusation –

**[six weeks ago]**

_He heard the door slam in the drive, but when he got to the porch, it wasn't Emily standing there eager to spend the weekend with him – it was Diane, and she didn't look eager, or even remotely friendly._

_Her green eyes were icy, and her mouth was a thin line. He'd stepped out on the porch, holding the door open warily, and glanced over at her red SUV, where he saw Emily' blonde head in the window. _

"_Was I supposed to pick her up?" he asked lamely – Diane never came to the door; she rarely spoke to him unless absolutely necessary. _

"_Tobias," Diane had said, in an impossibly cold voice – dangerous, because she'd called him Fornell since the divorce. "Have you been hitting Emily?" _

_Cue the black spots – he'd been so angry, so taken aback by the question. Hit Emily, him? He'd never lay a hand on her; he'd never hurt her – his own daughter? And that Diane would think such a thing – _

"_What the hell are you talkin' about?" he'd demanded, stepping out and letting the door slam. _

_He must have looked threatening, because Diane's cheeks paled slightly, and she tilted back on her heels a little – but she stood her ground, and if he hadn't been so angry, he'd have been proud, because that's exactly what he'd want the mother of his child to do when her baby was threatened – stand her ground. _

"_She has several bruises I can't explain," Diane said in a low voice. "Wrists, ankles, knees, shoulders," she listed. "Places that can be covered by clothing." _

"_I'm not abusing her," he said: once, definitively, and as firmly as he could manage. His hand shook, and he clenched his fists. _

"_She doesn't play sports, and she's not wild," Diane retorted acidly. _

"_What're you talkin' about, Diane, she runs around like crazy, she loves playgrounds, riding her bike – "_

"_She's calmed down lately," Diane snapped back. "She reads, or watches television. She eats less," she growled. "They're signs of abuse." _

_The black spots appeared in his eyes again – he wanted to shake Diane, scream at the top of his lungs – she couldn't accuse him of this; it was something he would never do. He wouldn't let her look at him like this, talk to him like this – like he was hurting their daughter. _

"_Diane," he said dangerously, "I'd die before I'd hurt her," he barked. "I'd never – "_

"_Mommy."_

_Diane turned around sharply, startled, and Fornell fell silent. Emily stood there, blinking at them with her wide blue eyes, holding her backpack and a lunchbox. She looked up at Diane uncertainly, and climbed up the steps, sidling between them. _

"_I said stay in the car," Diane snapped tensely._

"_I want to start Daddy weekend," Emily answered, smiling hesitantly. _

_Diane compressed her lips. Emily leaned back against Fornell's legs and reached up to grab his hands. He held her fingers tightly; his jaw was still tense, and Emily looked up at him and smiled. _

"_Daddy doesn't hurt me," she said matter-of-factly._

_Fornell shot a look at Diane pointedly, and Diane looked down, her face sour, but uncertain. She folded her hands, keys jingling loudly. She chewed her lip a moment, and then cleared her throat._

"_Where are your bruises coming from, Emily?" she asked curtly. _

_Emily shrugged, and Fornell – concerned by what Diane had mentioned, crouched down._

"_Is someone hurting you?" he asked seriously, catching her eyes. "A teacher? Older kid at tap class?"_

_Emily gave him an amused look._

"_No, silly," she retorted, and folded her arms. She hopped away and looked between them. She held up her hands, and Fornell saw the dark bruises Diane was talking about. She considered them and shrugged. "It's from the swings, from holding on!" she piped up brightly._

"_Wrapping your hands around the chains is bruising you?" Diane asked skeptically. _

_Fornell's gut stirred. He furrowed his brow. _

"_Emily," he said calmly. "That doesn't sound like a true story."_

"_I'm not lying," she pouted. She glanced at her mother. "The bruises happened on me, and my bones hurt, so I stopped playing as much," she said seriously._

"_Your bones?" Diane prompted, confused. _

_Emily arched her eyebrows, and pointed to her knees. _

"_It hurts when I pedal my bike," she said flippantly. "So I read instead."_

"_What's she got, arthritis?" Fornell asked dryly, standing up. It wasn't much of a joke – and Diane was white as a ghost. "What's wrong?" he asked. _

"_Daddy, I want to take a nap," Emily announced._

"_She slept on the way here," Diane said in a quiet voice, her eyes on her ex-husband – and he wasn't used to her looking at him without contempt, so he felt sobered – she looked worried. _

_He had taken Emily, and pretended to tuck her hair back, covering her ears._

"_You think somethin's wrong with her?" he'd asked, half-heartedly trying to sound flippant. _

_Diane had swallowed hard._

"_Yes," she answered emphatically, and she'd made a doctor's appointment immediately for Monday morning – _

**[present]**

- and it had been the last normal weekend he spent with Emily, because the doctor's appointment on Monday had consisted of blood tests and waiting, and on Thursday, the diagnosis had involved a lot of words he couldn't spell, and the treatment, the word: chemotherapy.

Fornell stopped rubbing his eyes, and waited for the black spots to fade. He listened to the silence in the house, thought about losing Emily, about how he'd had it on the tip of his tongue to ask Gibbs if it could be lived with, that sort of thing.

Tobias opened his phone, and held it to his ear, and he called his ex-wife.

* * *

Diane Barrett held her hand over her eyes. It didn't matter how dark the room was, her migraine was not subsiding – and she didn't have time for it right now. She heard footsteps in the hall and winced, swallowing slowly and steeling herself.

"Emily?" she called.

She didn't hear an answer, and she forced herself to get up – she wasn't angry at her daughter, she was angry that she had a migraine when she needed to have her full attention on her daughter. Holding her head still, she followed the footsteps, and nearly ran into Emily in the hall. The little girl put her hands on Diane's legs and looked up, her lips puckering.

"Mommy, go lay down," she whispered.

"What's wrong?" Diane asked instead. She crouched down.

Emily made a face and cocked an eyebrow, sticking her tongue out.

"I thought I was gonna throw up," she confided.

Diane looked over the six-year-old's shoulder to the bathroom; the light was on.

"I didn't," Emily assured her.

"Come here," Diane said gently, straightening up and taking her arm. She led Emily into the kitchen and got her a cup out of the cabinet. She lifted Emily onto a stool and then grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge, rationing some out. "This will settle your stomach," she said, dropping a bright green straw into the cup.

Emily beamed and accepted the cup. Diane sighed and leaned forward on her elbows, watching Emily thoughtfully. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Emily should be in school, but she'd had a fever this morning, and her nausea had been bad – so Diane had kept her home, again.

"Do I get to go to Daddy's this weekend?" she piped up.

Fornell had dropped her at her grandmother's last weekend, because a case had come up in which she'd been threatened – Diane was still livid over the whole thing; Emily had enough to deal with without Tobias' lack of vigilance putting her in the path of criminals.

"We'll see," Diane said shortly.

"Please?" Emily asked, pouting around her straw. "Mom-_mmmmy_," she whined pitifully. She fluttered her thin blonde eyelashes.

"If he's done with his case," Diane relented - it wasn't Tobias's weekend, but she could be flexible; she was more flexible lately; she and Tobias were getting along better – which was not saying much, but was a good thing for Em.

"Daddy said Agent Gibbs stayed in my room," Emily said primly. "I hope he slept with Raspberry Rum Tart. I said he should." She looked at Diane expectantly. "Do you think he did?"

Diane smiled placidly, her head aching. She had also been angry that Fornell had spent the weekend working and having some sort of man date with her other ex-husband, instead of spending free moments with his daughter, and she was wary of what had been discussed.

"I want to go to school," Emily announced.

"We'll see how you feel tomorrow."

"But I always feel sick when I wake up," Emily whined. "It gets better."

"I can't send you to school if you're vomiting," Diane answered apologetically. "They'll just send you home."

"Mommy," Emily sighed. "When will I stop being sick?"

Diane pushed her hair back, holding her bangs off of her forehead. She shook her head; she didn't have an answer for that. She tried to smile at Emily, but her lips only twitched weakly, and she reached out, touching Emily's fingers comfortingly.

"The first round of treatment lasts a month," she reminded her. "How many days left?"

Emily held her hands up vaguely, and then tilted her head, wiggling her fingers and thinking. She moved her lips and then straightened up, reaching up to scratch her head vigorously.

"Twenty-one," she said.

"Very good," Diane praised. "After that, maybe you won't feel sick anymore."

Emily rolled her eyes good-naturedly – the adults kept saying 'maybe' and 'we'll see.' It didn't mean anything to her, except that they didn't know, and they were supposed to know everything.

Emily pulled her hands from her hair and held her palms out, her lips pursing matter-of-factly. She widened her eyes curiously and wiggled her fingers, and strands of smooth yellow hair fluttered to the countertop.

"Emily," Diane said sharply.

"It did that in my brush, too," she said solemnly, and then leaned forward. "Uh-oh, Mommy."

Diane turned around. She made it look like she was getting something out of the pantry – but she just needed to hide her face. She knew this was an effect of the treatment, but no matter how much she prepared herself for it – she was not prepared to see it. She bit her lip hard, and her head felt like it was about to split open.

Emily had been told it might happen – that's why her father had taken her to My First Make-Over last weekend, so she could get a fancy, girly royal treatment, with pictures and pampering, before her Rapunzel fantasy was destroyed.

When Diane thought of Emily's hair falling out, instead of growing out like Rapunzel, like Emily wanted, she couldn't breathe.

Emily got off her stool and ran into the kitchen, sidling up to her mother and pulling on her hand. Diane cleared her throat harshly, blinked her eyes rapidly, and stepped back, stroking Emily's hair gently and looking down at her.

She felt strands easily break into her hands, fall between her fingers to the floor, and her chest burned.

"What do you want to do, Emily?" she asked, as steadily as she could. A psychiatrist, a pediatrician, and Fornell had suggested they let Emily tell them what she wanted done about her hair.

Emily jumped up.

"Can I cut it? I can look like my Kit doll!" she said.

Diane nodded.

"Of course," she agreed. She compressed her lips. "It will still start falling out," she warned gently.

"Okay, but not all of it yet," Emily said, hands on her hips. "Kit hair."

Diane nodded – that might be best. If this round of treatment worked, Emily might not even lose all of her hair, so there was no need to do anything radical yet. Still – Diane felt helpless, so she crouched down, taking Emily's shoulders.

"Do you want me to cut all my hair, Emily?" she asked. "So we look the same?"

"No, I like your hair," Emily said rapidly, touching Diane's red locks. "Why would you cut it if you don't have to?" she asked, confused.

Diane tried to smile at her. She pulled her close for a hug, and pressed a kiss to her thin blonde hair – and she held it loosely in her hands, gingerly, afraid of pulling more of it out, desperate to make it last.

* * *

Emily was asleep when her father called, and Diane forced herself to answer, though at this point her migraine was making every movement one that caused dizziness and black spots in her eyes.

She curled on the couch, phone to her ear, hiding her face from the light.

"Hello?" she asked quietly.

"Case closed," Fornell said loudly, in a clipped tone. "Bad guy arrested, good guy exonerated, Emily's safe."

Diane snorted; safe from what? Her own body was attacking her.

"Tobias," she said calmly. "I have a migraine."

"Sorry," his voice was lowered. He was silent for a moment. "How's Em?"

"She had to stay home from school."

"Again?"

"She threw up all night. She's not hungry," Diane said dully. "Maybe I can get her to eat some soup for dinner."

Fornell grunted unhappily.

"Can I come see her?" he asked.

Diane sighed. Mere weeks ago, it would have been unheard of for her to civilly talk on the phone to her ex-husband, much less allow him to come visit at her home in passing – but things were different –

**[five weeks ago]**

_When she had first taken Emily to the doctor, she hadn't known what to expect, and when the diagnosis had tentatively come back, she'd completely put aside her personal issues and called Fornell away from work immediately – now, they sat together in a room decorated like a circus, while a nurse talked to Emily in a room on the other side of the glass – they had already spoken to her, of course, but the nurse was hopefully answering questions that were out of Diane and Tobias's field house._

_They sat in front of a pediatric oncologist, and no one smiled, or tried to make light of the situation. Diane sat closer to her ex-husband than she had since divorce court, and his hand on his knee kept twitching like it would take hers, but he didn't have the courage. _

"_What are our options?" Diane asked finally. _

"_Well, I do want to reiterate that the outlook is good, and we intend to keep it that way," the pediatrician began diplomatically. "This is the most common, treatable type found in children – "_

"_But it isn't guaranteed curable," Fornell broke in._

"_Tobias," warned Diane tensely. _

"_What?" he growled bluntly. He looked at the doctor. "Look, I don't want to hear bullshit. Put it all on the table." _

_The Pediatrician looked grimly amused._

"_If we have to diagnose a kid with cancer, this is the kind you want," he said dully, and Diane bit back a scathing retort. "Her age, gender, and race classify her as low-risk, which means the drugs we'll have to use won't be so aggressive."_

_Fornell shifted impatiently._

"_Is she going to die?" he asked._

"_Tobias!" snapped Diane. "She's not going to," she broke off, and looked at the doctor. "She's not." _

"_Treatment can be very successful," the pediatrician said neutrally. "It would be unethical for me to make promises, but statistics are promising: ninety-percent of cases can be forced into remission. And Emily's brain and spine are unaffected, at the moment." _

"_At the moment?" Diane asked._

"_We should start her immediately." _

_Diane had fallen silent; Tobias had leaned forward and put his head in his hands a moment. _

_He'd asked: "Start with what?" in a brave tone._

"_Chemotherapy."_

_Then, he had reached over, without looking at her, and taken her hand. _

**[present]**

-Diane blinked hard, waiting until the black spots subsided, and cleared her throat.

"You can come see her," she allowed tiredly.

"Would ice cream be good for her stomach?"

"Maybe vanilla," Diane said hoarsely. "I don't have any in the house."

"I'll bring some," Fornell decided. He paused. "You, uh, want me to get you anything?"

"Tobias."

"Right," he muttered – there was a strict rule in place that they weren't allowing their turmoil over their child to confuse them in to thinking there was something to be salvaged between them.

She sighed, on the brink of tears – she was always on the brink of tears.

"Tobias," she whispered. "Her hair started falling out."

He swore, and she closed her eyes, tears burning her eyelashes.

* * *

The coffee shop was crowded, over-priced, and loud – a far cry from his usual haunt, but enough of an irritation to distract him from the unbearable frustration of having lost the trail of Sharif – there was a mad man on the loose to terrorize the innocent, gone without a trace, and Gibbs' team had nothing to show for it, but a dead Naval officer, his distraught son, and an ill-timed flirtation with a blonde Army Colonel.

Not getting the guy frustrated him more than anything – it tasted like failure, and he disliked failure.

Gibbs waited for his order to be up – how long could a damn black coffee take? – and tried to drown himself in the cacophony of the crowd. He curled his hands into fists in his coat pocket, running his thumb over a crumbled business card; it had Hollis Mann's phone number on it, and he was debating a call; they'd said they'd wait until they caught Sharif, but he'd thought that was going to be yesterday – now was he obligated to hang in limbo until the bastard popped back up on the radar?

He couldn't decide if he wanted to call her, anyway. What was the point, when the only thing he'd do eventually would be screw it up – he always did, and he did it best when he actually started to feel for the girl – exhibit A worked in the office off the catwalk, now.

In the midst of losing Sharif, his tensions with Ducky, with Jen – with DiNozzo, even, he sensed – he still had moments of doubt: why had he even come back? because of Tobias, because one case made him remember he didn't have the strength to keep living with only his memories and Mike Franks?

This job was going to be the death of him – he'd been hoping it would be the death of him since he couldn't pull the trigger himself in 1991.

But – he was meant to keep living, it seemed.

He grunted, suddenly, and something small and – colourful – crashed into his legs. He stepped back, startled, and a couple boxes of instant hot chocolate tumbled to his feet; he'd bumped into a display – the very same display, it seemed that had tripped the little kid who'd stumbled to one knee at his feet.

He glanced around for a parent, didn't see a worried one, and crouched to pick up the display.

"Oops," the kid moaned, and Gibbs realized it was a girl – he'd thought boy, because of the cap on his – her – head, but then he realized that, though it was blue, it was knit in a calligraphy pattern.

The letters _E.F.M._ graced it.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

"Uh-huh," muttered the girl. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I get distracted," she said solemnly, as if she were repeating something she said often.

"S'okay," Gibbs said, replacing the last box. He held out his hand. "Skinned knee?" he asked.

"Nope," she said, and looked up warily, not placing her hand into his. "If you're a stranger, I can't – hey!" she broke off, and beamed warmly. "Agent Gibbs!"

Her bright eyes widened excitedly, and Gibbs stared at her, taken aback – he didn't recognize – he looked closer, at her palely freckled skin, luminous blue eyes, and then his eyes drifted to her hair – her head, covered in a cap but … ?

"Em…ily?" he said slowly, his eyes fixed on her knit cap.

Emily Fornell, blonde little Emily?

She grinned and hopped up in front of him, nodding her head rapidly.

"Yeah!" she giggled. "Daddy said you came back to be a good guy!" she informed him.

The last time he'd seen Emily Fornell, she'd been having lunch with Fornell at the Hoover Building, the week before he left NCIS – and she'd had long, thick blonde hair – he could have sworn she did.

His staring must have caught her attention, because she wrinkled her nose, and waved her hand in front of his face.

"Oh, are you looking at my hat?" she asked, her voice matter-of-fact. "Mommy made it," she said proudly. "So I can decorate my head, 'cause I can't have hair."

Gibbs swallowed – was she here with Tobias, or - ?

"Emily?"

He heard his ex-wife's sharp, panicked voice through the crowd of people, and he stood up, holding out his hand to Emily again. She took it this time, and stepped closer – Gibbs didn't notice his coffee was sitting, ready, behind him on the counter. He looked around, and by chance, he caught Diane's eye in the crowd, and held up his hand, pointing to indicate he'd found Emily.

A flurry of emotions flashed across her face, and then she tightened her mouth and started to push over. Gibbs looked down at Emily, and she looked back at him with a smile – he noticed there was a large bandage on her arm, and she had dry, red skin on her neck – like a rash or something.

He swallowed again, looking at her blue eyes, but before he could think of anything to say – Diane was standing there, and she took Emily's hand from him and squeezed it tightly.

"I told you to wait for me," she said, though her eyes were on Gibbs'.

Emily stomped her foot.

"I couldn't!" she said indignantly. She pouted up at her mother, and Diane looked slightly annoyed.

"Are you okay?" she asked tightly.

"Mmm," Emily said brightly. "I didn't get sick! I just got water from the sink, so I was okay."

Diane nodded. She averted her eyes from Gibbs for a moment, and then squeezed Emily's shoulder.

"Go pick out the treat you want," she instructed.

"'Kay," Emily agreed, scampering off.

Diane eyed her warily, and tilted her head.

"Since when do you shop at Starbucks?" she asked curtly, without looking at him. She turned up her nose. "Isn't it too patrician for you?"

"What?" he asked, and then grit his teeth – it wasn't worth it. He shrugged. "Same time you decided to start buyin' a kid five dollar brownies, I guess," he retorted – when they'd been married, Diane had been enraged by women who took their children into expensive coffee shops.

Diane's jaw twitched. She looked at him.

"Emily earned it," she said shortly.

She inclined her head.

"Large black coffee," she remarked, pointing out the forgotten cup. "Yours."

He turned and glanced at it. He ignored it, and faced Diane. This time, she didn't look away – he hadn't seen her in, oh, it had to have been more than a year, now, maybe longer – maybe several years. She looked older, but not in the usual way: it was more that she looked like she'd been put through the wringer, not that she'd aged – and she looked tired.

Diane waited for him to say something, to ask something – Emily's appearance had to have shocked him, sparked some sort of curiosity – and there was no point in subtlety anymore, since things hadn't gone as swiftly as planned.

"You knit?" he grunted, breaking the silence. It was a loaded statement, if she'd ever heard one.

"I learned," she retorted, just as curt. She paused. "It's calming. Something to focus on."

She had gotten – not used to Emily's diagnosis – but well-versed in it; she was no longer struggling through every hour of every day; she knew how to handle what Emily was feeling, how to preempt what might make her sick, and how to deal with stares in public – bald little girls in colourful caps did tend to draw stares.

Gibbs' temple twitched.

"Focus on," he repeated. He glanced over to where Emily was still trying to choose a sweet from the display glass. "What're you takin' your focus away from?" he asked neutrally.

Diane didn't say anything for a moment. She grit her teeth, and then pushed bangs out of her face, holding them back a moment.

"You're the last person I wanted to run into today," she snapped unhappily.

He gave her a look – and he thought he was being civil.

"_Emily_ ran into me," he pointed out sarcastically. He didn't pause, this time. "What happened to her hair?" he asked.

She sucked her bottom lip in, like she used to do when she was upset, when they were married, and her eyes flashed. She lifted her shoulders.

"I thought Tobias had told you," she said tersely, almost nastily. "You can talk to him."

"I'm talkin' to you," Gibbs retorted, almost patiently.

"No," Diane said frankly. "I can't. Not in public," she said flatly, and Emily came dashing back over, taking her mother's hand.

"I want the lemon pound cake!" she decided.

Diane nodded.

"Say goodbye," she instructed.

"'Bye, Agent Gibbs," Emily said warmly, saluting him. "We have to go get a prescription," she informed him, stumbling over the big word.

He lifted his hand and waved, nodding. He cleared his throat, searching for something to say.

"Feel better, Em," he encouraged.

She wrinkled her nose, and shook her head.

"I won't," she said secretively. She shrugged, and Diane straightened her knit cap. "Maybe after round two," she said, and held up her fingers.

Diane squeezed her hand – she led her away, and Gibbs stood still, his coffee ignored, Sharif forgotten, thinking of blonde hair – but now, a child's blonde hair, rather than an attractive Army Colonel's.

* * *

Gibbs expected footsteps on his basement stairs that night – he didn't know if they would be male or female, but he knew it would be one of them, and when he heard them, he got a mason jar down from the shelf and started pouring bourbon.

"Heard Emily tried to take you down today."

It was Fornell, and he thought that was better – he and Diane had always been volatile, and now was no time for them to suddenly act like they had any sort of amiable connection after the divorce.

Without saying anything, Gibbs handed the FBI agent a generous glass of alcohol.

"Rotgut," grumbled Fornell.

Gibbs turned, shrugged, his own mug in his hands.

"Figure you need it," he said – he was sure he was right.

He was – Fornell looked grim, and then gulped the whole measure down and slid the jar away, his face contorted. He opened his mouth, wiggled his tongue, and shook his head, muttering a curse – damn bourbon; he didn't know how Gibbs stomached the swill.

They stood in silence, with the boat looming in the shadows, and Gibbs felt like he was back in Emily's room, with an unshaven face and a juice box, being scrutinized while Fornell silently asked questions about Shannon and Kelly – now he was doing the silent asking, and come to think of it, Fornell looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days.

"Emily's sick," Fornell finally said, abruptly.

Gibbs tilted his mug, looking down at the bourbon it contained.

"Uh huh," he drawled slowly. He clenched his teeth together, unclenched them. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's got a shaved head, Gibbs, you know damn well – " Fornell broke off, and seemed to compose himself. He turned, bracing his palms on the wooden counter. He took a deep breath. "It's called Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia," he revealed dully.

"Cancer?" Gibbs asked.

Fornell just nodded.

_Cancer_.

Gibbs stared at the boat without seeing it – Emily Fornell, _cancer_. It was so … it wasn't right, it wasn't fair – all of those things; all of those angry emotions he'd felt when he'd lost Kelly: the rage at God, for inflicting such horror on the innocent, the rage at the world, for having no God to protect the innocent – it was a myriad of feelings that settled in to dread in his gut.

"She's five," he muttered, almost to himself.

"She's six," Fornell corrected. "She'll be seven in February," he added. "Born the same year you got back from Russia."

Gibbs blinked – that's right; Emily had been born in two thousand; he remembered now, because it had come out of nowhere, her birth – part of a shotgun wedding to Diane, he'd joked dryly.

He couldn't think what to say, so he put his foot in his mouth.

"How's a six year old get cancer?" his voice was tense.

Fornell looked at him dubiously, and the snorted.

"Same thing I asked," he muttered. "She doesn't smoke. This ain't Hiroshima, or Chernobyl," he added, bitter. He shrugged. "Somethin' about her cells, they're just growin' wrong."

Gibbs downed his bourbon, and reached for Fornell's jar. He started to pour him more, but Fornell shook his head.

"Got to drive," he demurred.

Gibbs refilled only his mug, and turned back around. Tobias still leaned against the counter, staring at the cabinets. Gibbs started to drink, and then looked at his friend – his shoulders felt heavy.

"Wanted to tell you," Fornell said shortly. He shook his head. "When we first found out, Diane wanted to keep it quiet – "

"She ashamed of it?"

"Nah, nah, Jethro," Fornell said, almost defensively. "She's just – she's scared, she couldn't talk about it," he said. "She didn't want to be dealin' with the whole world's pity."

Gibbs took a drink of bourbon – so Diane had faced something that was too painful for her to speak about, to discuss with those who didn't already know. He wondered if the irony of that had ever occurred to her – if she'd ever thought of those days and nights she'd tried to force him to talk to her when he couldn't.

"She was in shock for a week," Fornell said dully. "We both were."

Gibbs pressed his heel into the concrete floor.

"How long's she been sick, Tobias?" he asked tightly.

Fornell looked over at him.

"'Bout three months," he said. "That's how long we've known, been treatin' it," he corrected. "Diane figured somethin' was wrong with her in July, she wasn't actin' herself," he snorted derisively. "She accused me of abusing Emily."

"She did what?" growled Gibbs, offended.

"Yeah, that was my reaction," Fornell said dryly. "Em was gettin' bruised up, Diane couldn't explain it. She was tired, lost her appetite, had nose bleeds," he shrugged. "Diane made an appointment."

Gibbs turned back to the boat. He must have known, then – god, when Gibbs had stayed at Fornell's house, in Emily's room, back in September – she would have been sick, then; that weight had been on Tobias's shoulders then.

"It's not the worst diagnosis," Fornell said, filling the silence. "Her cancer, it responds well to treatment – she needs blood transfusions sometimes; I give 'em. Universal donor," he noted.

"She gonna be okay?" Gibbs asked finally.

Fornell shrugged.

"Well, pediatric oncologist was hopin' she'd go into remission after one round of chemotherapy," he said. "Would have been the best response – but she didn't. She started chemo in September, but cancer was still there after round one, so now she's in the middle of the second."

Gibbs swallowed more bourbon, breathing in the fumes of it. He closed his eyes.

"How's she handlin' it?"

"Ah, Em, she's a trooper," Fornell said. "It makes her sick, makes her unfocused, distractible – she has rashes, she's tired, she misses school. She puts up with all the needles real good," he paused. "Kids," he said, shaking his head.

"Resilient," Gibbs grunted.

Fornell nodded – Emily was taking it much better than her parents. Maybe she didn't understand fully what could happen, or maybe children were just stronger than adults, when it came to true fear.

"If she goes into remission this time, we start a different round of chemo, then we get her cured, and it's a few more years of maintenance chemo, to keep her healthy. Best case scenario."

Gibbs didn't have to ask what the worst-case scenario was. He had experienced that – in a different way, yes, but the end was the same – loss of a child. He swallowed the rest of his bourbon, leaned back, set his mug down, and rubbed his jaw harshly.

"Anything I can do?" he asked finally.

Fornell shook his head. He smiled mirthlessly.

"Don't bug Diane," he said.

"Can't help that I exist," Gibbs muttered, and Tobias snorted, nodding appreciatively at the jest.

He knew what Tobias meant, though; Gibbs' job was to be Gibbs, as unconnected to the Fornell family as he'd always been. See Emily in passing, hear Fornell talking about her, steer clear of Diane – deal with his own shit, essentially, except Gibbs liked Emily Fornell, and his savior complex made him want to try to help her – not that he could.

"Diane," Gibbs said under his breath. "She okay?"

"No," Fornell said flatly.

"You guys, uh…"

"We're both there for Emily," Fornell said. He shrugged. "Gettin' along better now than we have since the divorce."

"Not sayin' much," Gibbs muttered, and Fornell snorted again – that was the truth, but at least they kept their spats to muffled whispers, in corners, when Emily wasn't around.

They were trying to be good parents, strong parents, because somehow they hoped that made it easier on her to fight on.

Fornell straightened up, prowling around the boat – the conversation was dying, milked of its necessity, fading to stubborn silence and loaded glares. Gibbs had no way to comfort him, and even if he could relate to this particular thing, nothing he said would make a difference.

Fornell walked towards the stairs, evidently done talking – and Gibbs didn't move to stop him; he didn't know if we wanted to hear more about chemotherapy and leukemia and bruises – she was just a little girl.

The FBI agent stopped, though, and looked defeated, meeting Gibbs' glare.

"You know what kills me?" he asked angrily. "I look at her, and I can't see Emily. I only see cancer. I see it killing her. I see it takin' her away from me," he growled. "'M so goddamn scared it'll kill 'er, I can't be a good father."

Gibbs looked at him without judgment – he understood what it was like to distance yourself from someone you loved, just to avoid being crushed by that emotion in the long run. He doubted Fornell was being a bad father – but he understood the frustration.

"The only thing about her that it hasn't touched is her eyes," Fornell said tiredly. "She's got rashes, bruises, scars from IVs, from lumbar punctures – but she's still got happy eyes."

Gibbs nodded, and smiled slightly, though it wasn't a particularly warm smile – Fornell was right; Emily still looked happy; she'd looked happy when she tumbled into him in the coffee shop, and when she'd waved goodbye.

He understood implicitly what a comfort it must be, that Emily's eyes weren't touched by fear or illness or exhaustion – when he was around Emily, he liked to steal a few moments, looking at her blue eyes – because they reminded him so much of Kelly's.

* * *

_ -like I said: ends right about after 'Sandblast'_

_-Alexandra  
story #200_


	3. 2

_**a/n:** annnd here we're starting circa **season 4 episode 'Iceman'**_

* * *

Separated by a rusted chain link fence, the two men stared at each other – alone, parked in an alley, watched only by the sun, the graffiti on the walls, and the litter strewn around. There was pain over the death of Liam O'Neill, and frustration with the case to be dealt with, along with the constant games Mike Franks played.

"Found your prints in his car, Mike," Gibbs grunted, walking up to the fence slowly. He squinted in the bright sun, peering through the holes in the metal at his old mentor.

"Figured you probably would," Franks grunted, his voice gravelly. He was unconcerned, clearly, and that ticked Gibbs off.

He knew Franks was dealing with the blowback of taking his son off life support, but there was only so much Gibbs could do to protect the retired agent without losing his job or crossing a moral line – if Franks was rampaging around on vengeance killings right under his nose, he'd have to collar him – and he'd have to ignore that Franks had once looked the other way for him.

"You shoulda told me you saw 'im," Gibbs said bluntly, referring to Liam O'Neill.

"Didn't want you askin' me too many questions," Franks retorted caustically.

"About?" Gibbs snapped tensely.

About what – about his grown, mystery son, a man Gibbs had never heard of until yesterday? Gibbs wasn't a gossip, he wasn't a talker; he accepted, and then quietly investigated, when it came to personal issues – he didn't _question_.

"What my son was involved in!" Franks growled, and Gibbs grit his teeth – it was surreal, how quickly the words _my son_ had become familiar to Franks – it was stunning how immediately parental feelings seized you once you had a child, or learned you had one, and this side of Mike was throwing Gibbs off – and dredging up old memories, as if he hadn't had enough of that lately.

"Are you gonna tell me?" Gibbs demanded.

Franks ran his tongue over his teeth, then gritted them, his stubborn and craggy face stiff and annoyed. He met Gibbs' eyes and moved forward, resting his fingers on the fence.

"I saw 'im a coupla days ago," he said grudgingly. "He needed money. Just about cleaned me out, but I got it for 'im – twenty-five thousand," Franks explained, and Gibbs clenched his jaw – that was a hell of a lot of cash. "He took five hundred, asked me to hold the rest. Said it was safer that way. Said he would call me when he needed it," Franks shrugged, reached for a cigarette. "Never called," he grunted, dejected.

"What's this about?" Gibbs questioned aggressively.

"Wouldn't tell me," Franks said, lighting the cigarette.

Gibbs' eyes flashed, and he moved closer, eyeing Franks as menacingly as he could through the fence – he set his shoulders back and moved his hand violently.

"He wouldn't tell you, or you won't tell me?" he barked.

Christ – he was trying to help Mike; he was on his side. He'd be on his side no matter what, but the moment it became about family, he was drawn in completely; utterly.

Franks looked at him, incredulous.

"We get more alike, you and me, Probie," he snarled, pissed off. "Even feelin' the same pain. I don't know how you didn't go crazy when you lost your little girl," he said, "maybe you did for a while. Maybe you still are. I just know I gotta do what's right for my boy. I owe 'im that."

Gibbs set his jaw, and swallowed; Mike had gone for the throat, sank his teeth into the jugular: he didn't have to bring up Kelly, to compare what he was doing – anything for his child, or in vengeance for it – to what Gibbs had done for Kelly – but he did, and it resonated.

These kids, threatened, these parents, desperate not to feel what Gibbs felt.

"Then let me handle it," Gibbs asserted sharply. He narrowed his eyes, saw Mike check his watch. "You gotta be somewhere?" he asked curtly.

Franks ignored him.

"I want the body sent to my place in Mexico, when Ducky's done with it. Can you arrange that for me?" he asked.

Gibbs put his hand on the fence, gripping it angrily, his knuckles turning white.

"I don't want to have to come after you, Mike," he growled.

"Then don't," Mike fired back, stamping out his cigarette. His lip curled. "Did I come after you, Probie?" he growled quietly. "You ain't the only one who's got a right to screw over ev'rybody else 'cause you're out for blood."

Gibbs reared back, watching as Franks stormed off – got in his car, and drove off, breaking speed limits, burning bridges, maybe. He narrowed his eyes, staring at that empty alley, alone with his thoughts.

He looked up at the blue sky, thinking of blue eyes: it had to be kids – it always had to be kids, and it left a sour taste in his mouth, and hollow place in his soul.

* * *

The Director had her heels off and one foot propped on her desk casually. She plucked at wrinkles in her slacks, her head tipped back against her chair. The sun was setting behind her – case closed, day winding down, e-mails answered, a certain silver agent sitting on her couch like he owned it.

"Will Franks have a funeral?" she asked.

The body of Liam O'Neill had been sent off for Mexico; Gibbs had honored Franks' request.

Gibbs shrugged – probably, a small affair, for Leila, and the baby.

"You want leave, to go to Mexico?"

"Tryin' to get rid of me already, Jen?"

She smiled, and shrugged. She was quiet.

"He was your mentor," she said mildly. "I thought you might like to be there."

"I don't do funerals," he grunted.

The Director compressed her lips and looked up. She rested her hand at a standstill on her knee, and tilted her head at him.

"Agent Todd's funeral," she pointed out.

He said nothing. Kate's funeral had been the first one he'd attended since Shannon and Kelly's, and it hadn't been easy. He was grudgingly glad he'd only made it to the gravesite, to lay a rose; he couldn't make it through Catholic ceremonies – masses, weddings, and funerals. They reminded him too much of his wedding, his daughter's confirmation, his wife's funeral; things that hadn't been part of his belief system, but had impacted him because Shannon held them so dear.

"Never thought Franks seemed like the fatherly type," Jenny said under her breath.

Gibbs said nothing. He hadn't seen him that way, either – hell, Franks had never seen _himself_ that way. Things changed, when faced with that reality.

"Can't believe he had one," Gibbs snorted, shaking his head.

"Keeping children a secret seems to be an easy past time for men."

"Jen."

She held up a hand, and didn't take it any further. She didn't know why he was taking refuge in her office, and she didn't necessarily want to chase him out – their working relationship was good, now, and their personal relationship wasn't so bad at the moment, either. It felt like it had – when she was a Probie, before they had ever slept together, and it was refreshing.

She planned on valuing that while it lasted, because she knew it had been threatened when they went to Canada after Rene Benoit, and she knew it was going to deteriorate rapidly when he found out she was using DiNozzo – and if he found out she hadn't been innocent with DiNozzo.

"Go home, Jethro," Jenny advised.

He laughed.

"To what?"

She adjusted an earring, and curled her toes.

"Hol," she answered, mimicking his tone, and the nickname he used.

Gibbs ignored her. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, looking down at his hands. There was something on his mind, that much was clear – she knew there had to be; watching his old partner lose his son couldn't have been easy on him, considering.

She wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to mind. She supposed that was for the best – she'd gotten over her anger at him for never telling her. He looked up, eyes straight ahead.

"Emily Fornell has cancer," he told her abruptly.

She parted her lips, like she'd had her breath knocked out. That was what was bothering him, then. She should have known – but then, she hadn't been sure he knew. He and Fornell got on, sure, but she didn't know what the extent of their unprofessional relationship was. Beers on weekends, or heart-to-hearts about life-threatening problems?

Fornell hadn't known about Shannon and Kelly, so she'd assumed they were only work place pals. But then, no one had known, except Ziva.

Jenny inclined her head.

"I know about Emily Fornell," she said neutrally.

Gibbs looked over at her, clearly taken aback. His eyes narrowed, silently asking who had told her.

"The Director of the FBI," she revealed succinctly.

Gibbs looked skeptical, and Jenny chose her words carefully.

"He defended Agent Fornell's behavior towards me, in light of the situation with Emily."

Gibbs arched a brow.

"What'd Tobias do?" he grunted.

"It was during the serial killer case, the woman with the toes," Jenny said, cocking her own eyebrow. "He insinuated that if I got _laid_, I'd be less hysterical – and to try giving him orders when I got rid of the _envy_ and grew a real pair."

Gibbs started to laugh, and then turned it into a coughing, gruff noise and composed a blank face, trying to look stern. She gave him a warning look, and he sobered even more.

"He said that?"

"I edited the vulgarities," Jenny said dryly. "His boss cited extreme duress; the weight of the case, and Emily's diagnosis."

Silence fell, and Jenny sat forward, reaching for her knee. She ran her hands over it firmly, massaging – an old injury was bothering her, and wearing heels all day never helped. She stretched forward, rubbing down her shin and back up, her chest pressing against her thigh, and watched Gibbs.

The office was dimmer, now, with the sun gone, and she shifted, and turned on a lamp.

"How long have you known?" she inquired quietly.

He sat back, lifting his shoulders.

"Couple months," he said vaguely.

"I thought the diagnosis was rather recent. Fornell didn't seem like he'd come to terms."

Gibbs eyed her hands, watching her massage her knee. He got up and came around her desk, sitting on the edge. He gestured to her leg, taking her knee across his like it was nothing, natural.

"Diagnosed her in August," he said gruffly, thinking back. "She's already had three rounds of chemo," he added. "This injury been actin' up all week?"

"Just aching."

"Stop wearin' heels."

"No."

He shook his head, and she tilted her head back again.

"Three rounds?" she asked quietly.

He kept his eyes on her knee, focused there.

"First phase, to get it into remission," he muttered. "Didn't take, the first round, so they gave 'er two more."

"That doesn't sound promising," Jenny said quietly.

He cleared his throat. It hadn't been. The best-case scenario, for the best prognosis, was to get Emily into remission after one round, but it had taken three before they were able to start her on post-remission drugs.

"Is it in remission now?"

He shrugged. He didn't understand the way it works.

"Yeah, but she's on a different kind of chemo," he said. "Some chemo that's getting' rid of all the cancer that's left, if it works. And she's got some drug therapy, too, 'cause of some gene mutation," he trailed off.

Fornell updated him occasionally, when they had a case together – he'd last heard all of this when they were doing the serial killer case, and things had been particularly bad at home because Emily needed more blood transfusions, and her weakened immune system had subjected her to a bad case of pink eye.

Gibbs squeezed just below Jenny's knee, and then gently ran his hand over, seeking the scar he knew was under her slacks. He applied pressure there with his fingers, and chanced a glance at Jen – she was watching him, her face pale.

"I can't imagine," she said dully, her face guarded. "Emily…she's – how old is she?"

"Seven, now," Gibbs grunted.

"Right," Jenny tilted her head back, laughing a little. "She's as old as Paris."

"Good thing she's Diane's, then," Gibbs remarked dryly, and Jenny put her hand on her heart, giving him a look and shaking her head. "You got any secrets?" he asked.

She thought of her remark about secret kids, and shook her head, rolling her eyes.

"No such luck, Jethro."

"Luck?"

She shrugged. What was she supposed to say? He was obviously struggling with his friends' kids' tragedies, one dead from brain damage, another dying of cancer – and no doubt that affected his own trauma.

Jenny pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

"Do they think she'll be okay?" she asked softly.

Gibbs looked down at her knee, unable to look in her eyes. He didn't know anymore. Remission therapy was good, supposedly, but not until tests came back cancer-free, and it had been hard to get Emily to that phase – she lost her hair, she'd been pulled from school and given specialized home-schooling through the children's hospital, and her parents were worn thin – if this lasted years, it would take its toll, and if she wasn't okay in the end, it would destroy Diane and Tobias.

He knew it would. He'd been there. And he almost – he almost thought, if Emily died, he'd be the one who had it easy, because at least he hadn't had to watch his daughter die slowly, right in front of him.

"Have you seen Emily lately?" Jenny ventured, when he didn't answer her other question.

He still didn't look up. He nodded.

"She looks sick," he said gruffly.

The Director fell silent, and for what seemed like eternity, he sat in that dull silence, massaging her old injury like he used to, when they were in Europe, and it was fresh, and she was more often than not, naked.

Jenny shifted, resting her hand on the arm of her chair.

"You talked to Diane?"

He didn't want to relate the story of running into her, of finding out, so he just shook his head.

"Nah."

She nodded, and leaned forward, reaching for his hand.

"Can you stop?" she requested, and her voice was slightly low. "Go home," she requested.

Line: drawn; situation avoided. She was sensing his emotional state, and she was saying: find another woman.

"Are you seeing Hollis Mann?" she asked.

He removed his hands, and he eyed her mildly, and then nodded. She arched an eyebrow.

"Why was she so cold to you, last week?" she pried.

"Fishing, Jen?"

"Bite the worm, Jethro."

He smirked, and said nothing. Jenny grinned.

"You didn't call her, after you slept with her," she guessed. She shook her head and leaned back, shaking her head. She bit a nail, and then pointed her fingers at him like a gun, pursing her lips. "Asshole."

He tilted his head – he did need to go home. He should call Hollis; he couldn't get away with neglecting to do so, the second time. He got up, and inclined his head at the Director, bidding goodnight.

He went home, thinking of Mike, and Emily.

* * *

Diane hadn't thought she'd ever get used to seeing her daughter hooked up to oxygen and a chemotherapy drip, but the sight was almost constant now. The drugs she was being administered since just after her birthday weren't as aggressive, because they were intended to clean her of the remnants of cancer, now that she was in remission.

She was happy, of course, that Emily was in remission, but she wasn't going to start breathing again until the day they were told she could go home: no more needles, no more chemo, no more blood, side-effects –

"Mom," Emily said, moving around restlessly in the comfortable chair she always sat in while she got her drugs. She wrinkled her nose and scratched her head, twisting her fingers in the fuzzy knit cap.

"Hmm?" Diane asked.

"Can we all really go to Disney World? Even Daddy?"

Diane smiled gently; Emily had been asking since her birthday – they had planned to take her for her seventh birthday, but it hadn't worked with her treatment schedule, and her doctors didn't want her to travel. It was indefinitely postponed now.

Diane nodded neutrally. She and Tobias had a brutal fight over who got to take Emily to Disney World, before he finally suggested they just suck it up and go together – they were doing well, at being a united front for her, and often, now they were so used to it, they got along very well – until they remembered they were divorced, and supposed to hate each other.

Emily's cancer was a horrible thing to bond over, but it made their own issues seem so petty and ridiculous, and often, Diane was now ashamed of the things she used to nag about, or let bother her.

Particularly when she watched Emily, who was still handling this all so well.

"Do you think I can go to real school in September?" Emily asked, swinging her arm slowly. "Because, I think this is working," she giggled.

She smiled, and Diane leaned forward, squeezing her knee – Emily kept saying she had a gut feeling about this one, and Diane wasn't about to look into those beautiful blue eyes of hers and try and bring her down.

"It's looking good, sweetheart," she said cautiously. "You keep up with work so well, you know."

"I can't let them make me a first-grader _again_!" she gasped seriously. "I wanna be with my friends!"

"I know," Diane placated. She patted Emily. "I'm so proud of you, for all the hard work you do. Even when you feel _really_ sick."

Emily beamed at her, and leaned back in the chair – she was accustomed to spending long bouts of times in the hospital, receiving chemo, or generally being cared for, and now she was less cowed by the prospect and more accepting. She got restless while the IV was in her.

"Mommy, I want to go to the Zoo as soon as the pollen dies down, because it's been so sunny…"

Emily started talking, and Diane sat back, sitting with her; just being there as a figure of support. She was distracted, tired, at the end of her rope – last year, when Emily had been diagnosed, she had clung to the hope that there would be one round of chemo, and then the cancer would be gone, but here they were months and months later, and Emily was just starting the remission chemo.

She should be more elated than she was, except now she was just – there were other complications to struggle with; her burgeoning reconnection with Tobias, which she couldn't define, because Emily's cancer was probably characterizing her feelings for him, as support, and someone who understood – and their finances were stretched thin; health insurance was about to run out, just when Emily was going to need long-term remission treatment, and she kept getting sick – the flu, pink eye, strep – blood transfusions helped her blood to stay strong, and replenished her anti-bodies, but blood transfusions were a shadow over Diane right now, they were causing her grief, stress, she was making herself ill over the goddamn blood transfusions –

**[three weeks ago]**

_It had been a new doctor in the room, a younger one. He seemed to be a resident, but occurrences like that no longer bothered Diane or Tobias; this was a routine appointment anyway. _

"_Okay," he'd drawled, in a thick accent. Emily sat perched on a hospital bed, in a gown, her sleeve already pinned up. "Who are we getting blood from today?" he asked her._

"_Daddy!" she'd answered hoarsely, recovering from Strep. She pointed, and Diane smiled weakly, leaning against the wall. _

"_And it's usually your blood we use, right Mr. Fornell?" the doctor asked._

"_Uh-uh," Tobias said, rolling up his sleeve. He jerked his thumb. "My wife – uh, ex-wife, tests anemic half the time," he said, smirking. _

_He liked to give Emily blood – it made him feel less helpless; like he was helping her fight. _

"_Well, we'll just get started," the doctor muttered, looking at the chart. He called a nurse in and set about getting them ready, and then stepped back and watched, standing close to Diane. "How has she been?"_

"_Sick," Diane said curtly. "I'm worried about her immune system."_

"_It's going through cycles right now," he said. "The blood transfusions help."_

"_We know," Diane said tightly. She knew all these things; she was well versed in all of this now. She closed her eyes, thinking of apologizing, but she didn't. She swallowed hard. "As much as I hate to see her get another lumbar puncture, I want to know if it's gone," she growled._

_After this round of consolidation therapy, they'd know; and if it was gone, that meant steps to ensuring she stayed healthy – and then this would be over, and her baby would be okay. _

_The doctor nodded._

"_Understandably," he agreed. "Emily has a great attitude, Mrs. Fornell – "_

"_Barrett," she corrected automatically, quietly. _

"_Right, yes," the doctor muttered. "She's lucky she's got you and Mr. Fornell, being so united, considering the circumstances." _

_Diane smiled lopsidedly; Emily giggled and swatted at her father, and he made a face at her – and Diane remembered how proud and happy he'd been in the delivery room. It was nice, to look at Emily and Tobias._

"_Lucky her dad's got so much healthy blood, eh?" Tobias snorted, lifting his arm and showing his own needle. Emily giggled and nodded, her knit cap going crooked._

_Tobias fixed it, and kissed her forehead, and Diane tilted her head, almost tempted to pull out her cell phone and snap a picture – actually, she did; she might as well keep pictures of all of Emily's life, and not just block this out. _

_She admired the picture. _

"_He's a universal donor," she muttered._

_He'd even given her blood, after she delivered Emily. _

"_Oh, is Emily adopted?" the doctor asked breezily._

"_No," Tobias answered bluntly, standing up and taking a seat next to Emily's bed. "C'mere, munchkin, I'll tell you how Agent Gibbs' boat is coming," he bribed, and Emily hopped off the bed and onto his lap, making the nurse cringe as she tangled wires and IVs. _

_Diane looked around curiously, her brow furrowed. _

"_What?" she asked. "Of course she's not adopted. She's got – " she started to name something Emily had of Tobias', and just sort of stopped. _

_Emily looked more like her mother, except for her eyes. Her eyes – _

_The doctor was looking at her intently, and then he looked down at his chart. _

"_Mrs. Barrett," he said politely. "May I speak with you, outside? A few treatment options, to keep her eating, healthy?" _

_Diane nodded, putting her phone into her pocket and stepping outside of the room. The last thing she heard was Fornell saying something about how Mr. Agent Gibbs' new lady friend had somehow cracked the hull of his boat. _

_She smirked a little vindictively at that, and then the door shutting brought her to reality._

"_Yes?" she said._

"_Mrs. Barrett," he began delicately. "The only universal donor blood type is O negative."_

_She blinked. She hadn't known what his blood type was; she'd just heard him say he was a donor before. She lifted her shoulders, as if to say 'so what?' and tapped her foot slightly impatiently. _

"_Emily's blood type is AB positive."_

"_I know," she said tersely. "I know what her – " she stopped._

_The doctor looked at her. _

"_O is a recessive blood type," he said neutrally. "A and B are both dominant."_

_Diane grit her teeth, feeling unsteady. She swallowed, and blinked her eyes, putting a hand to her hair. _

"_What the hell are you saying?" she muttered. _

"_It's biologically impossible for Tobias Fornell to be the father of Emily." _

_Diane stared at him. _

_Her eyes – _

**[present]**

-she had been in turmoil over that single, technical conversation since it happened – she'd researched it, double checked her sources, confused, desperate – and she'd only come up with the same answer: Tobias wasn't Emily's father.

Not if they were going by blood type.

She had nightmares, when she did sleep; her migraines were getting worse – it was enough to stress about Emily, to live in the reality of a child with a life-threatening illness, but now she was struggling with Emily's paternity.

She hadn't – she had never had doubt, not – well, maybe, for a moment or two the day she was born, or a fleeting second over the years – but the chance, that one night had – that she had Emily, because of one _night_ –

"Mommy," Emily called whimsically, waving her arm in Diane's face. Her bright blue eyes stared at her matter-of-factly. She snorted, admonishing Diane silently for zoning out. "I said, did you know Agent Gibbs told Daddy he'd fix my doll house, since I stepped on the roof?"

Diane swallowed, and tried to smile.

_Gibbs_.

Emily grinned.

* * *

Fornell took a grudging step back, pretending to be amazed, holding his hands behind his back obediently. He watched as Emily flexed her hands, and got ready to show him how she could _totally_ swing herself now – and really high, too!

She pushed against the wood chips on the playground, and started scraping her feet to get going, swinging back and forth.

"It takes a minute," she said loudly. "But I can do it!"

Fornell watched. He missed the days when he'd been the one pushing her, because she couldn't do it herself – but then, he was glad she was feeling energetic enough for the playground. She'd been listless lately, and so when she'd asked to go for the swings on a sunny Saturday – he'd almost cried with relief.

She was getting to the end of her first – hopefully only – round of consolidation treatment, and maybe she was finally adjusting to these drugs – her first round of remission induction had been awful, but the second two, she'd been more acclimated to – she'd just had trouble adjusting to this cocktail.

"See?" Emily called, swinging at a safe, but impressive height. "Daddy, you swing too! It's fun!"

Tobias glanced around him sheepishly, and sat down in a swing, twisting around for a moment, swaying back and forth as he watched her. He hadn't had a weekend off, to spend time with her, in months – on top of his load at the Bureau, he was still attached to Homeland Security, and he was caught up in that mess of Shepard's, over at NCIS and the CIA.

He'd had to broker a meet with her and some CIA alias, Trent Kort, just the other week –he tried telling Gibbs she was out of control, but Gibbs wasn't hearing it, at least not from him; so he'd just updated Gibbs on Emily – and that hadn't seemed to be something Gibbs wanted to think about, either.

Fornell didn't blame him. The intense, chaotic fear he'd experienced when they first got Emily's diagnosis had subsided into a dull, lurking ache, but it was still there – he and Diane were just struggling to get to the next lumbar puncture: hoping, praying.

He swung up a little, and Emily _whooshed_ past him, her cap flying off. He got up, but she shook her head.

"No, no, it's okay," she cried. "I don't mind my head anymore," she said.

Tobias felt a lump in his throat – it hurt him, cut him to the core, to hear her say that, to think that his sweet daughter, his innocent child, was used to her hair loss; her cancer.

Emily called to him again, shouting – the wind must be in her ears.

"Mommy let me watch an episode of the Peanuts, and Linus's friend had Leukemia, like me!" she explained. "And her hair was blonde, and she got better, and it all came back!" she said excitedly.

"Like yours will," Tobias said firmly.

He was much more positive with Emily than Diane was; he routinely made assertive statements like that, whereas Diane preferred tacit smiles and occasional "maybes" – he knew she was trying to prepare, but he wished she'd be more encouraging.

Diane. Diane was – he didn't know if she was getting worse, or just more exhausted, but after a brief period where she'd gotten strong and seemed to be at peace with what was happening, she'd slid back into a black hole, and she was harder to get along with, stressed, prone to tears, or defensiveness –

**[two weeks ago]**

_He'd been in a good mood, when he came over for dinner with Emily, and she'd been quiet – halfway through dinner, he'd gotten a call from work, and after Emily was tucked in with a movie on the couch, he'd pulled Diane into the kitchen._

"_Can we push back her appointment tomorrow? I got to work a little late," he muttered, apologetic._

_Diane swallowed quickly, and moved her head._

"_I'm going to give her blood," she had said tensely. "You don't need to leave work; I'll take care of it tomorrow."_

_He was taken aback; they'd made the decision to be at all her appointments together, unless something absolutely impossible came up for him at work – something like a third world war. _

"_Diane," he said, a little offended. "You haven't been sleepin,' you're stressed as hell—"_

"_You don't know my sleep schedule."_

_He gave her a look, and glanced behind him. _

"_I've been sleepin' with you, Diane," he reminded her._

_She rubbed her jaw, her cheeks flushing, looking upset._

"_Shhh," she hissed. "We are not discussing that – "_

"_Yeah, I noticed," he said dryly, but she pushed him back a little, as if she needed air. "If you don't want to push the appointment back, I'll leave work early – look, you don't need to be givin' blood right now."_

"_I want to give her blood," Diane snapped. She folded her arms. "I'm not doing enough. You say it makes you feel like you're helping, well, I want to feel like that," she explained. _

_She bit her lip, and her eyes started to water. _

"_She lost another five pounds," she said, her voice cracking. "Tobias, if this doesn't work – "_

"_It's going to work, Diane – "_

"_We can't afford much more," Diane hissed. "And the idea of her needing a transplant, sc – scares," she looked so stricken, and not – not just scared, but wary; guilty. _

_He stepped forward and reached for her shoulders, and then he had searched her expression._

"_Is something else bothering you?" he asked._

_Was he doing something that was upsetting her? Should he stop staying over – even when she initiated?_

"_No," she said._

_Her lip curled, but he didn't mention it – but at least he knew, now, that there was something else –as if she needed anything else, besides Emily. _

"_She's gonna beat this, Diane," Fornell said. _

_Diane had started to cry, and she'd pushed him away, that pale, guilty look in her eyes again. _

**[present]**

-she had been like that lately; distraught, or very cold, worried. He knew a lot of it was Emily, and he didn't know how to ask her what the other problem was. He did think it was just the stress of their re-kindled relationship – or whatever it could be called, their falling back into an almost married state of living, except he did go home, and take Emily on weekends, and if he stayed over, he left, so Emily would be none the wiser.

He was trying to help Emily fight, trying to work, to pay for all of this, to take care of Diane – meanwhile, he was losing the one outlet he had to Director Shepard's increasing mania over the French bastard.

He relied on Gibbs for a sort of escape, to abstractly report on Emily, a silent face that both reminded him that it was possible to lose Emily, and live, and that also reminded him – no matter how bad it gets, at least she's alive. Gibbs – with his bourbon, and short responses - was a good sounding board.

And Gibbs was caught up in whatever Jenny Shepard was entangling NCIS in, and when he wasn't doing that, he was playing house with that blonde Army woman, acting like he'd be able to carry on a successful relationship.

Fornell snorted – Gibbs was kidding himself and that woman, and Fornell knew it because of the way Gibbs looked when he asked after Emily: like a man who was living in the past. Grieving, in the past.

"Dad," Emily scuffed to a stop, out of breath, her cheeks flushed. She stood up, and took a few steps, clinging to the metal bar of the swing's apparatus. "Whoa, I'm kinda dizzy – Dad, can you take me to see Agent Gibbs' boat, if it's reaaaaally almost finished?"

Fornell smiled. Gibbs might like that; he liked Emily, and it might help him, to see her.

Gibbs – Tobias sensed – hadn't fully recovered from his coma, from his Mexico nightmare, before he'd thrown himself back in, and that's why he got that look in his eye when Emily was mentioned; once _again_, he hadn't properly grieved and let go of his own little girl.

He started to answer, but Emily bolted backwards and hunched over, vomiting all over the mat under the swing next to her. He jumped up, startled, and reached for her, lifting her away and crouching in front of her.

"Ugh," she moaned, and smiled distastefully at him, opening her mouth as if it burned. "Too much swing."

_Too much chemo_, he thought, and gave her a hug, wishing he had something to wash the taste out of her mouth.

* * *

He had placated the fears of the woman lying next to him, and while he listened to her breathe, he tried to figure out why he'd done it – he liked Hollis; she was spectacular: smart, beautiful, funny – but he didn't love her. It was frustrating, sometimes, how easy it was for him to identify a lack of love, but how _hard_ it was to acknowledge love for anyone but Shannon.

He knew he was never going to be what she wanted, and he didn't think he could suffer through a marriage in which he watched himself do her wrong – so, he didn't know why he soothed her when she freaked out about his quick fix of her pipes; he didn't know why he reassured her, except maybe to reassure himself.

His job wasn't a refuge from his lonely home right now – they'd lost Paula Cassidy recently, Tony was spiraling out of control, and there were polygraph orders, suddenly – and Jen was sitting in the dark again, channeling Bond movie villains instead of being herself.

The only solid at NCIS at the moment was Ziva; Ziva was always solid. Ziva had brought him back from his coma, from Mexico; Ziva was reliable. He'd mentioned Emily Fornell to Ziva, and she had touched the Star of David necklace at her throat, and the orange cap on her head – he remembered; she'd just lost that man, the dead man walking, to aggressive, nuclear induced cancer.

Gibbs turned on his side, his eyes on Hollis. She lay flat on her stomach, her hair in her face, fast asleep. He moved closer, and took a deep breath, trying to feel more than just affection and lust. He didn't, and his jaw tightened.

His head ached. He needed to talk to Tobias, about the polygraphs; he needed to find out if all this was about to blow up in Jen's face, and what the fallout was going to be. He needed to ask about Emily – his gut bothered him, when he thought about Emily, and that made him wary.

The last he'd heard, she was doing okay; things were looking promising. That had been a few weeks ago – and things could change.

He swallowed hard; he wanted Emily Fornell better. He was tired of children dying. He was tired of almost making it to a point of acceptance, and being dragged back, and since the coma, his defense mechanisms and barriers had been ripped down while he recovered his memories, and sometimes fresh ones still cropped up, and he remembered the loss too freshly.

He'd taken to listening to Kelly's voice, on a tape player in the basement, and he hadn't done that in years.

He moved his hand, pushed Hollis' hair out of her face. He ran his hand over her back with just enough pressure to wake her up, and then shifted closer and kissed her, curling his arm around her.

"Jethro," she mumbled. "'M sleeping," she complained, smiling a little into his kiss.

"Wake up," he mumbled.

He didn't want to keep lying there, with his thoughts, staring at her ceiling.

* * *

He'd been parked outside the gorgeous white house for an hour and a half, waiting, when Fornell's sleek black SUV finally pulled into the drive. Gibbs took a long sip of his cooling coffee, watching as Fornell spotted him, turned on his heel, and strolled over.

He leaned down, his head in the window.

"Visiting our ex-wife?" he asked casually, smirking at Gibbs.

Gibbs shook his head slightly.

"Waiting for you."

Fornell sniffed the air.

"You smell like a woman," he remarked, arching a brow.

Gibbs gave him a look. He had Hollis's bag in the car; it smelled like her potpourri.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" Fornell asked.

"Friday night. Odd weekend," Gibbs retorted, like clockwork – and on cue, the front door opened, and Emily darted out.

"Emily, hold on," he heard Diane say.

"Hi, Daddy!" Emily called.

Her blonde hair flew, and Gibbs leaned back, staring.

"It's a wig," Fornell said, looking over. He shrugged. "She wanted to be Rapunzel, while it grows back. Hey, Em!" he called to her. "Be there in a minute," he promised, and turned back to Gibbs. "Diane look that pissed at you after your divorce?" he asked wryly, jerking his chin at Diane's tense face.

Gibbs eyed her, narrowing his eyes to see her more clearly: her arms were folded, her lips tight, her face pale; she looked more stressed, and wary, than she did pissed – but he recognized the look.

"Ah, she's lookin' at me, Tobias," he drawled.

"Ever think of picking up a phone?" Fornell asked, gesturing – Gibbs could do things the easy way, instead of parking outside an ex-wife's house, like a stalker.

Gibbs shrugged.

"Hard lines, they're tapped. Cell calls, snatched right out of the air," he retorted. He'd been sitting here, considering asking about Emily – he'd planned on waiting for Fornell to arrive, but if Diane had noticed him, he'd have asked her.

"Turning into a conspiracy nut, Jethro. What's next, alien abductions?" Fornell joked. He shook his head. "Sorry. Em's been watchin' the X-Files, when she's with me."

Gibbs grinned.

"Only if you don't answer my question," he said.

"Why the polygraphs?" guessed Fornell – yeah, he'd been there when they issued the order, and he'd wondered how long it would take for Gibbs to come sniffing around, no doubt trying to find a way to protect Jenny Shepard's ass.

He was that chivalrous, suicidal type, Gibbs.

"Hiii!" Emily Fornell called, standing at the end of the driveway.

"Don't cross the street," Fornell warned, as Gibbs waved at her, glancing at Diane again.

"You still dream about OJ and Diane?" Gibbs asked.

"Nah," Fornell answered, sheepish. "Emily kinda likes 'er." He hesitated. "We've been, uh – "

"Not back together?" Gibbs snorted, and then gave Fornell a look. Fornell shook his head, shrugged.

"Communicating," he said neutrally.

Gibbs looked at him skeptically, and Fornell arched his brows.

"You still dream about OJ and Diane?"

"Only when I think of my grandfather's watch," Gibbs retorted – but that wasn't entirely true.

He'd thought of Diane more than a few times, since he found out about Emily. He'd been sorry for her, in a way, thinking about how Shannon would have suffered if Kelly had been sick like that, and thinking about, maybe in a vengeful way, how Diane would now understand – why he had been so broken, when they were married; why she couldn't just fix him.

"Is the FBI being polygraphed?" Gibbs grunted abruptly.

"No. And before you go through the alphabet soup, let me tell you: this net is being cast strictly over NCIS."

"Who's fishing?" Gibbs demanded.

"Obviously, someone who thinks there's a security risk at NCIS."

"CIA," muttered Gibbs. He tightened his jaw – whatever Jen was, she wasn't a security risk. She'd never betray her country; that he was sure of. Over-zealous personal pursuits were not synonymous with betrayal. "Who're they after, Tobias?"

Fornell leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"Your boss," he confirmed.

"_EMILY MARGARET_!" shrieked Diane.

Gibbs wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but one moment Fornell was leaning down by the car, and the next moment he was standing in front of it, holding Emily by the shoulder and shaking her.

Gibbs blinked – he hadn't even seen Fornell jerk away, it had happened so fast, and now Diane was running across the street.

"She's fine," Tobias was saying.

Gibbs opened the door, half got out of the car.

"Emily!" yelled Diane, grabbing her firmly. "Your father said don't cross the street – you didn't even _look_, that car could have _killed_ you!"

"I got 'er, Diane, Jesus, you're scaring her – "

"She needs to be scared! Emily!" howled Diane.

Fornell touched her arm, and Emily looked between them, apologetic, her lip shaking slightly. She wormed away, and sidled up to Gibbs' car, looking at him.

"I want to see your boat, all finished," she said in a small voice. "Daddy told me it's finished."

"I'm still painting it," he said lamely, his eyes on the fake, Barbie-like Rapunzel hair on her head.

Fornell came over, trailed by Diane, and took her hand.

Emily sighed; Fornell gave her a look, and she obediently turned.

"I'm sorry I scared you, Mommy."

"Don't ever do that again, young lady."

It was strange for Gibbs, to see Diane so scared; it seemed a milestone in life, for a kid to run out in front of a car like an idiot – Kelly had done it once, and Shannon had reacted the same way.

Fornell gave Gibbs a look, and Gibbs got back in his car, waving. Emily gave him a wave and a smile back, and mouthed the word 'boat' – and as Fornell was leaving, Gibbs remembered –

"Diane," he said.

She was closer.

She looked stiff. She met his eyes, but didn't bend down, and there was a hard look around her mouth, like she was having a hard time remaining calm. He nodded towards Emily.

"How is she?"

Diane was silent. She looked over her shoulder, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

"Remission," she said finally, and her shoulders fell; relief. "She gets a break for a week or so, then she starts mild maintenance therapy, to keep it gone."

Gibbs looked at her intently, and then nodded. He tried a small smile – he hadn't smiled at Diane in years. She didn't smile back, she just looked miserable, and she looked at him like he had caused all of her daughter's suffering.

He turned the engine on; he figured there was nothing else to say.

She took a step back, turned, and then whipped back.

"Leroy," she said abruptly.

He looked at her expectantly; cautiously.

"What's your blood type?"

She didn't know why she asked; she may not have known what Gibbs' blood type was, but she knew who she'd slept with, and when.

He shrugged, and tilted his head. Then, he held up his hand, snorting.

"Gibbs," he said, and showed her two fingers, ticking them down as he spoke: "First B's for bastard, second's for blood type," his XO had told him that once, when he needed a transfusion in Panama. "B."

She didn't say anything else, and instead of asking – he should have asked; maybe she needed something – he drove away.

He looked back for a second, in the rearview mirror, and she was still standing in the street, hands on her hips, her head tilted back, eyes on the sky.

* * *

_the timeline for the end here is that it's about the very **end of season 4 - to be specific, 'Angel of Death'** - and by the way, if you recognize any dialogue, it's because I took it straight from the episode._

_-Alexandra_


	4. 3

_**a/n:** this one kicks off with references to the **season 5 episode 'Leap of Faith.'**_

* * *

He stood behind the glass in the dim observation room, watching Timothy McGee begin an aggressive interrogation, like he had once stood and watched the woman next to him perform her first solo interrogation. He watched McGee slam a file down on the metal table, order the suspect into submission, and held back a small smile of approval.

"I see McGee's got your mad act down," remarked the Director.

She stood next to him with her arms folded, her hair – hair streaked with blonde highlights – pulled back. He lifted his chin slightly, watching McGee.

"Almost," he allowed stubbornly.

She gave a small nod; she knew he'd withhold praise until McGee successfully got something, but McGee's tone was certainly an adequate mimicry of Gibbs-ish anger and ice.

"I heard your agents are pitted against each other," she said.

"Agent Jardine is not mine," he retorted coolly, still annoyed with having been assigned the clean freak agent – she might be smart, but her quirks were a frustration he didn't have time for.

His boss ignored him, and pursed her lips primly.

"What was that … Gibbs' rule, number fifteen? Always work as a team?" she coaxed, reciting from memory.

She did have a habit of reminding him she'd never forgotten the things he taught her. He used to like the memory – now, since everything had happened with Tony and his undercover mark, and Jenny, and the Frog, it was just another reminder that they were never going to be like they used to be.

"Not on this one," he told her stiffly, his eyes on the interrogation.

He thought of the events of the day: the shooting that had started it off. He'd confronted that desperate sailor on the roof, talked him into coming off the ledge – Michael Arnett had been coming in, when he'd been shot from afar; Gibbs had felt the man's hand slip out of his as he tried to hold him; literally, rather than figuratively, letting another person he'd failed to save slip out of his grasp.

_If you'd done your job and pulled Arnett off that ledge, my best man wouldn't be dead._

He didn't need the anger of Arnett's commanding officer to make him guilty; he already felt that.

Jenny turned towards him, her hands gripping her own arms lightly. She considered him.

"No one could have saved him, Jethro," she said quietly, her voice softening. She wasn't teasing him anymore; she was offering comfort. "He was dead the moment he stepped out on that ledge."

That did nothing to comfort him. He'd wanted Michael Arnett alive, and Arnett was dead; he'd faced an increasing problem with survivor's guilt, lately; something he'd never overcome since the war, since he lost Shannon and Kelly, since Franks' son had died – and the war, at least the war warranted survivor's guilt – he supposed he just felt guilty about being alive when the others were dead because he'd wanted, on some level, to be dead since nineteen ninety-one.

He hadn't been able to shoot himself, but he hadn't taken much care since then, and still, people around him lost their lives so easily, and he persevered – in quiet moments, he thought there must be some _reason_ he was still here when he'd survived so much he didn't want to live through, but he hadn't found that reason yet.

He grit his teeth, and didn't look at Jen. It was hard for him to look at her these days, though perhaps these days he understood her better than he ever had – at least he understood that desire that had driven her, if Rene Benoit really had taken the most important person in her life from her.

"That what I tell his sister, Jen?" he asked curtly.

He thought of Arnett's teenaged sister, unaware of what had happened, thought of how her heart would break over losing her big brother. He wanted this case to be over, wanted Arnett completely cleared, so he could tell her he'd been a hero, and assure her she'd get a flag.

Jenny sighed, her jaw clenching.

"You don't have to blame yourself for everything," she said suddenly. "You _act_, Jethro. You make an effort. You can't help it if circumstances beyond your control work against you."

He snorted derisively, stayed quiet. The chaos, the fallout, of the drama with the Frog had taken months to die down – and it still wasn't dead, just hibernating until they tracked the man down again, or found a body. Tony wasn't himself, Ziva wasn't working that well with him, since he'd pulled away, and no one trusted the Director. He didn't even find distraction in his relationship with Hollis, anymore; _that_ was getting too serious.

He glared through the glass at McGee, determined to solve this case.

* * *

He was on the phone with Hollis, warily watching Emily Fornell play.

"I don't mind, Jethro," Hollis said tightly. "You're babysitting her, though, I don't see why that means we can't keep our plans – I was just going to come over."

He said something about her needing his full attention, and Hollis scoffed.

"It's always something else needing your attention," she said nastily. "It's not like she's your kid and you can't introduce her to me yet," she snapped. "I _like_ kids," she added.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Hol," he said bluntly, ignoring her – he didn't want to argue; Fornell had asked him at the last minute to watch Emily – something had come up at the FBI, and Diane was at the spa for the weekend.

He'd agreed, and he hadn't wanted to do it with Hollis around. The idea made him feel … he didn't know, but he knew he didn't want it. He preemptively balked, because Hollis might bring up their future again.

She said something, and then hung up, and he put the phone down on the table in front of him.

"Your turn," Emily said, noticing he was off the phone. She pointed gleefully at the checkers in front of her, and he noticed she'd double-skipped over his pieces while he wasn't paying attention.

"Hey," he growled mildly. "I was distracted."

"Snoozers are losers," she retorted, wrinkling her nose, her blue eyes shining.

He gave her a look, and eyed his next move. Emily squeezed the Raspberry Rum Tart doll she'd brought with her, and Gibbs took a moment to glance at her short hair – it was coming back darker, more like Diane's, but he was glad to see it growing so nicely. It reached her jaw now, short, and easy to take care of.

He wondered if Emily missed the blonde.

"Ugh, Agent Gibbs?" she piped up. She sniffled – she'd been doing that all night – and she yawned.

"Yeah?"

"If you're gonna take a million years, I'm gonna go to the bathroom while I wait," she informed him.

He smirked at her, and waved his hand, nodding. He was going lose this game, anyway, and he hadn't even done it on purpose.

It was nicer than he'd thought, taking Emily for the evening. He'd only done it once before, in a situation of extreme emergency for Tobias, and apparently after that time, Diane had completely gone ballistic on Fornell for letting Gibbs watch her.

Emily had been three years old, then. He didn't know if Diane would still react the same way, but watching Emily this time was different. She was about Kelly's age, these days, and she caused a dull ache in his chest; he missed Kelly, but it didn't hurt to play with Emily, so much as it helped.

He reached for a checker, and picked up Raspberry Rum Tart – Emily had thrown her on the table – to move her out of the way – and his front door opened, and Jenny walked in while he was mid-move.

He put down the checker and changed his piece to a king, and Jenny shut the door.

He didn't know if he was surprised; she'd had a hard week – the incident with _Chimera_ had left her shaken, he himself was still dealing with how hard it had been to tell Rachel Arnett her brother was dead – and in the situation where Ducky had refused to autopsy a Muslim victim, Jenny had been made the bad guy.

She looked around at the area as she approached, her coat over her arm, and smirked.

"Playing with yourself?" she asked.

He sat back, and her eyes fell to the doll on his knee. Her smile faded. She sat down in the plastic chair that Emily had been in, and Gibbs didn't warn her.

"Am I in the Colonel's chair?"

"No," Gibbs retorted.

Jenny looked relieved, but wary. She kept looking at the doll, and she didn't ask what the checkers were out for. She glanced around, and saw a pink backpack by the fireplace; her brow furrowed.

Gibbs cleared his throat.

"You need somethin', Jen?" he asked.

"Bourbon," she retorted. He noticed her wince as she crossed her legs – her knee must be bothering her.

"Can't," he said.

She tilted her head, looking at the doll, and after a long moment, she swallowed hard, and asked:

"Is that Kelly's?"

He thought it was a brazen question, and it hit him hard. He hadn't expected her to just – jump in like that.

"No," he growled abruptly.

"Agent Gibbs," Emily said in a small voice, running back into the room. She ran up, hit her knee on a stack of books, and winced as she knocked them over. "Oops," she said fearfully, her hand over her mouth and nose.

"S'okay," he assured her, and gestured her over. "What's wrong?"

She mumbled through her hand.

"Speak up, Em," he ordered, ignoring Jenny's presence.

Emily looked at the Director worriedly, and then came closer, moving her hand a little, opening her fingers.

"My nose is bleeding," she said.

Gibbs turned towards her and took her hand. He moved it slowly, and saw her nostrils and lips were all bloody. Without thinking, he stretched out his sleeve and wiped her face, holding the slack of his hoodie against her nose.

"You hit your face?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I sneezed," she said, her face pale. "Can I hab some water?" she asked thickly. "It got in my mouth. It's gross."

He set aside the doll, and sat back.

"Yeah," he said, taking off his sweatshirt and handing it to her. "Hold it to your nose," he instructed, and led her into the kitchen.

He saw Jenny sit forward and pick up the doll, looking at it with a small smile. He didn't know what the hell she was doing here, but it made him uncomfortable – Jen seeing him take care of Emily.

He felt like this – part of his character – was something his team, his boss, didn't need to see. He'd kept it buried for so long.

He hoisted Emily up on the counter, and got her a glass of water. He wet a paper towel and gently replaced his sweatshirt with that. She sniffed, and made a face, sticking out her tongue.

"Don't blow," he instructed. "Breathe through your mouth," he muttered.

She nodded.

"I know," she said, her voice still clogged. "I got nosebleeds lots, before chemo," she told him.

He was running cold water over his hoodie when she said that, and he looked over at her sharply.

"Before?" he asked. "Or as a side effect?"

"Before," she mumbled matter-of-factly.

He left the sink running, and patted her knee, leaving her sitting on the counter with cold water if she needed it. He went back into the living room to get her doll from Jenny, and the Director stood up.

"Is she okay?" she asked.

Gibbs shrugged.

"She's been healthy for months now," Jenny remarked.

He nodded. His fingers brushed hers as he took Raspberry Rum Tart.

"Why'd you come over, Jen?"

Her jaw flexed uncomfortably. She didn't know what to tell him – because she'd been thinking about some of the things she'd done, lately, and he was the one person in her life who was reliable to the core – no matter how badly their relationship had been fractured.

"Booty call," she joked, but it didn't touch her eyes.

He gave her a wry look, and shook his head.

"What if Hollis' had been here?"

"You think she'd mind?"

He laughed at that, and turned.

"Give me a minute," he said, going back to tend to Emily – she didn't know what that meant.

Give him a minute to get Emily to sleep, and then go at it? Or a minute to walk her politely back out to her car? Car, she sensed – Gibbs wasn't a cheater. Though, she had thought the affair with Hollis Mann was dwindling; perhaps she'd been wrong.

"Em, you sure you didn't hit yourself?" Gibbs asked, concerned when he saw that her nose was only bleeding more heavily.

She looked scared.

"I just sneezed," she repeated.

She coughed, and blood got on his shirt.

"I don't feel good," she mumbled.

"Sink's right – " he started, but Emily was way ahead of him; she leaned over and threw up, making a face; she must have swallowed too much blood, and it was making her nauseous.

Gibbs gave her a sympathetic look and rested his hand on her head. He bent to switch out her paper towel for a third time, and set his jaw when he noticed how fast that one got bloody.

"Jethro," Jenny said from the doorway, her eyes on Emily. "You need to take her to a hospital. That's not stopping."

He studied Emily intently for a moment, dread in the pit of his stomach; Jen was right. Her nose wasn't going to stop. He stroked her hair comfortingly and tilted his head.

"Emily," he said. "I have to take you to the doctor."

"Please don't," she groaned. "I _hate_ doctors."

He nodded – of course she hated them. They may have saved her life, but they'd also poked her, prodded her, broken her open, taken her blood, pierced her with drugs – she didn't have good memories.

"I'm dizzy," Emily said.

"Jethro," Jenny said sharply.

He looked at Jen.

"Grab my keys," he requested.

She held up hers.

"I'll drive you," she offered matter-of-factly. "You can sit in the back with her. Don't worry about the blood."

Gibbs didn't feel like he had time to argue. He tucked Emily's doll under his arm, picked her up – she may be seven, but she said she was dizzy, and he thought she'd feel better if she was carried – and followed Jen out of the house.

In the car, he kept his sweatshirt held to Emily's nose, and called Tobias.

* * *

He strolled into the waiting room, hands in his pockets, a grim look on his face, and tried to smile when Gibbs stood up, and the Director of NCIS lifted her head, concerned. It was nice to see some sort of emotion on that woman's face.

Fornell never had understood what Gibbs saw in her. She always seemed like a frigid bitch to him.

Gibbs asked questions with silence and looks, not words, and Fornell ran a hand over his jaw, nodding.

"She's fine," he said. He lifted his shoulders. "Hell of a nosebleed," he snorted mirthlessly.

He held out the hoodie she'd been clutching, and gave Gibbs a wry look.

"Might have trouble getting that out."

Jenny stood, and took the hoodie.

"I can get it out," she said. Without thinking, she said: "I can get blood out of anything."

Fornell raised his eyebrows at her, almost amused.

"Don't tell the CIA," he remarked dryly.

The Director gave him a cold look, and folded the hoodie delicately in her arms.

"She _swears_ she didn't fall?" Fornell asked, eyeing Gibbs critically.

Gibbs nodded. Emily kept insisting she'd just sneezed.

"She's got a bruise on her shin," Fornell grunted.

"She tripped over some books," Jenny said mildly, suddenly remembering. "But that can't possible have bruised already.

Gibbs grabbed Jenny's elbow, and gave her a sharp look. Fornell smiled grimly, and rubbed his jaw.

It was possible, he knew it was. He just didn't want to believe it. He and Diane … had been watching Emily closely, for the past few weeks. She was on a break from her mild rounds of maintenance Chemo right now, but she'd gotten a mild case of whooping cough from an unvaccinated kid at school, and had a hard time shaking it – and she was sleeping a lot again.

Neither of them wanted to address it, at least not until her next chemo appointment, but –

**[two weeks ago]**

_Fornell had been in a slight hurry as he dropped Emily off at Diane's, but she'd stopped him._

_"How was she this weekend?"_

_"Still coughin' up a lung," Fornell answered good-naturedly. "But, she taught me how to braid hair," he said smugly._

_Diane smiled tightly._

_"Will you be at her tap recital Friday? She really wants you to be there."_

_"'Course," Fornell had answered – they attended all of Emily's events together, now; that had gotten much easier since they'd taken her to Disney World over the summer._

_"Tobias."_

_"I swear, Diane, I'll be there."_

_She glanced into the house, and then she stepped out, and closed the door. She folded her arms, and was silent a moment. He shifted impatiently – he really had to get going, and he didn't have time for –_

_"Did she sleep a lot? At your house?"_

_Fornell stopped fidgeting. He swallowed hard. He didn't answer, but his face must have answered for her, and she brought her hand to her forehead, her arm shaking. Her cheeks flushed._

_"She's sleeping a lot here," Diane said rapidly. "And, she keeps getting fevers, it's hard for her to ride her bike."_

_"Diane – "_

_"Her lymph nodes are swollen again, Tobias."_

_"Diane," he said tightly. "She's fine."_

_Diane just looked at him, and she licked her lips. They were silent – wondering: were they just being paranoid, or was Emily sick again? Were these just different side effects of maintenance chemo, or was it starting over?_

_"I can't do this again," Diane said harshly._

_"We won't have to," he retorted confidently, almost angrily. "We already had the bad luck. It's probably just," he paused. He didn't know what to say._

_"Tobias," Diane said desperately. "We can't afford anything else! And I can't … I just can't even think – "_

_He put his hands on her shoulders, and he'd forgotten he was late for work – but even after that conversation, they'd both been withdrawn, scared to talk to Emily … just waiting for her next appointment, to maybe … see._

[**present**]

- the feeling of dread he'd gotten in his gut when Gibbs called about Emily was bad enough; the look on the doctor's face when he'd taken some blood from her was worse.

Fornell rubbed his jaw hard, and then scratched the back of his neck, looking at them both.

"You're off the hook, Gibbs," he said, shooting a look at Jenny, mildly curious. "They're gonna keep her over night."

"For a nose bleed?"

"For some tests," Fornell muttered.

Gibbs swallowed hard. He took the doll from Jenny, and handed it to Fornell silently; Emily would probably want her, if she had to sleep in a hospital. The Director watched the doll, and looked at Fornell sympathetically.

"You two better beat it," Fornell said grimly. "I called Diane."

"You did?" Gibbs snorted.

"Habit," Fornell grunted. "Her kid, too," he added, shrugging. He looked at them both, and then cracked a smile, jerking his thumb at the Director. "Diane doesn't like her."

Gibbs moved his arm, rested his hand on Jenny's back. He smirked.

"Yeah," he agreed, and plucked Jenny's keys from her hand. He shot a look towards the hospital doors, and nodded curtly at Fornell, wishing him luck. "Give me a call 'bout 'er, Tobias," he requested.

Fornell just nodded, and waved goodbye. He turned, his hands on the back of his head, and stared at the doors to the children's ward. Emily was asleep, so he decided he'd wait for his ex-wife out here.

She was going to be a mess.

* * *

She stood outside the cracked open door of her daughter's hospital room, holding a cup of cafeteria coffee in her hand. She'd gone to get it, and she couldn't bring herself to go back into the room.

Emily had just had a lumbar puncture – another one – and she'd been miserable through it, and had tried to resist; it seemed she was drained of her optimistic attitude when it came to illness, and Diane didn't know what they were going to do if they had to tell her the cancer was back.

Tobias came out quietly, and shrugged, pulling the door almost closed.

"She's asleep."

Diane sighed.

"At least she stopped crying."

"She's just scared, Diane."

Diane gave him a look – of course she was scared. They were all scared. Having cancer once was terrifying enough. What kind of odds did Emily have, if it came back – and this quickly?

Diane shook her head, and realized she didn't want the coffee. She offered it to her ex-husband, and he took it. She pulled her hand away sharply when it touched his, and avoided his eyes – she'd done a good job, lately, of compartmentalizing the question of Emily's paternity, but it was back on the surface, now, if blood transfusions were going to start again.

"Good thing Gibbs knows how to take care of a kid," Fornell said dully. "When I got here, Em was still in triage. Gibbs had her totally calm. Like magic, or somethin'."

Diane didn't say anything. She'd never seen Gibbs interact with a child; she just knew he'd lost one.

"Why did he have her?" she snapped, glaring.

"It was an emergency, Diane," Fornell placated tensely.

"You couldn't take her to the Hoover building?"

"Nah, we were pulling a body out of the Potomac," Fornell snapped back – and if it turned out to be whom they thought it was, then last night was the last time Jennifer Shepard would be free from the shackles of the law.

It was looking like the body was Rene Benoit's, and might turn out that Gibbs' precious boss had murdered him.

He snorted, and shook his head.

"He had Jenny Shepard with him," he remarked dryly.

Diane's eyes narrowed; her nostrils flared distastefully.

"I thought you said he was seeing some woman in the Army," she said testily.

Fornell shrugged, amused.

"Dunno what he and Shepard were doin' together," he said smugly.

"Well, I'm glad you let our daughter be witness to it," Diane sniffed loftily, giving him a dirty look.

"Oh, c'mon, it's Gibbs, not Agent DiNozzo. S'not like she saw anything raunchy."

"Who the hell is Agent DiNozzo?"

Fornell shook his head. Never mind, he thought. Diane cleared her throat, folding her arms and tapping her fingers against herself tensely.

"I can tell you what he was doing with Jenny Shepard," she mumbled nastily.

"Careful, Diane, you sound jealous," teased Tobias.

She grit her teeth – it was old jealousy, old pain, but it didn't matter. It was still there. She narrowed her eyes and swallowed the instinctive words that came to her lips, choosing silence instead.

They had hours to wait for Emily's test results to come back. She focused on that, instead. Looking straight ahead, she steeled herself, and parted her lips.

"What are we going to do, Tobias?"

"It might not be back," he said – even he sounded half-hearted.

"We need to look into taking her to St. Jude's," Diane said dully.

"I can't – we can't move to Tennessee – "

"We might have to relocate temporarily," she snapped, turning towards him. "We can't afford the same treatment we did last time. We'll drown."

"You could go back to work," he suggested roughly.

"Someone needs to take care of Emily full time! If you think _I _want to miss a second of her life _working_ – "

"Don't you dare accuse me of wanting to miss out!" Fornell barked, rounding on her. "If it weren't for my health insurance, she'd be dead right now!" he shouted.

Diane's face turned pale. She leaned back heavily against the wall, and clenched her teeth together hard. She took a deep, shaky breath, and started to cry, closing her eyes tightly. Fornell paced away, cooling down, covering his eyes.

He took a steadying breath, stormed over to Diane, and wrapped his arms around her, refusing to let her get away. She was his ex-wife, and despite how precariously they walked the fence of reconciliation these days, and how tense their relationship could be, she was the only one who understood exactly how this felt, and vice versa.

Emily was their daughter, and only they understood this.

"She's gonna be okay, Diane," he said hoarsely.

"Tobias," Diane cried, her nose pressed into his shoulder. "I … we … we have to talk about Emily," she said shakily, so vaguely; she knew he would think she meant treatment options, or money.

But she meant – blue eyes and blood type.

* * *

They sat again in a brightly painted room, decorated to obscure the horrible realities it bespoke, and they faced a grim-faced pediatric oncologist, while Emily played in a familiar room down the hall –reconnecting with a young girl she'd met at the hospital, though that young girl had never gotten better, even for a moment.

The doctor rubbed his jaw, examining Emily's charts again.

"For her Leukemia to come back, this quickly and this aggressively, is not promising," he stated redundantly, and Fornell sensed Diane biting back a nasty comment – of course they knew that.

They _knew_ it wasn't _promising_ for cancer to come _back_.

Diane clutched her purse in her hands, holding it stiffly on her lap.

"You said there were different options to discuss," she said curtly. "This time."

The doctor inclined his head.

"Ah, yes," he said, handing them a thick file. "This contains the drug regimens we did for Emily the first time, as well as her reactions – all of her medical records, essentially, including bills, how much school she missed – "

"She barely was able to stay in her age group," Tobias said tensely.

The doctor looked apologetic, and laid a file on top of that one in Fornell's hands.

"This is some literature on a more aggressive treatment," he began slowly.

"Aggressive?" Diane asked warily. "More aggressive than soaking her in radiation?" she asked skeptically.

Diane hated chemo, and everything about how it made Emily feel.

"Chemo is still a necessity, I want to emphasize that. But in these cases, cases in which the cancer returns quickly – particularly in children, who have much better luck with acute lymphoblastic leukemia than adults do – we usually feel it's best to attempt a bone marrow transplant."

"Bone marrow?"

"_Attempt_?"

Diane and Fornell spoke at the same time, and neither of them sounded calm.

"That's major surgery," Diane choked. "She's just a little _girl_."

"Yes, Mrs. Barrett," the doctor said quietly. "She's a very sick little girl."

Diane covered her face a moment, and Fornell sat forward.

"Attempt?" he repeated.

The doctor sighed.

"Such a procedure is contingent upon finding a match. Obviously, immediate family members are sought first. Siblings are usually the best bet, though I know Emily is the only child. Cousins?"

Diane shook her head without looking up, and Fornell rubbed his jaw.

"Me?" he asked. "Or her mother?"

"Possibly," allowed the doctor. "We'll need to test both of you. If neither of you match, we'll put her on a list to find a donor, and we'll resume the drug therapy regimen we used last time while we wait."

Diane got up, and walked around the room, her throat constricted – bone marrow transplants. Bone marrow – blood tests; marrow testing, and Tobias wasn't going to match – well, he could, but it was a one in a million chance –

She looked through window in the room they were in, staring at the sun outside. She thought of telling Emily she'd need something this horrible; chemo this aggressive, and she couldn't –

**[a week ago]**

_She and Tobias had called Emily into the kitchen to talk to her, armed with her favorite doll, and her favorite snack. Bribery seemed hollow, but they wanted to do something to comfort her._

_"Did my spine pokes come back?" Emily asked matter-of-factly, sliding into her usually chair and immediately starting to munch on one of the chocolate cookies._

_She'd always called lumbar punctures spine pokes – she said it sounded less scary, and more like an alien procedure. Emily liked stories about aliens – she'd spent her time at home and at chemotherapy watching the X-Files to pass the time._

_"Emily," Diane began, and Fornell sat down next to her. He leaned forward and touched her knee, catching her attention._

_"Mom and I want to talk to you," he started, and Emily put her cookie down._

_"I don't want to be sick again," she said abruptly. She started to move her hands to her ears. "I don't want it, okay? Can you not say I'm sick again?"_

_"Em," Fornell said tiredly, trying to give her a reassuring smile. "It's going to be okay."_

_Emily's lips had trembled, and her face crumpled. She pushed her cookies away, and her cheeks flushed hotly._

_"No," she whined. "No, Daddy, they said it was gone. They said it would stay away if we kept taking medicine," she pleaded. "Daddy," she said, and then looked at Diane. "Mommy, please. Mommy, my haur it just grew back," she clutched at her hair. "I don't want it to go again!"_

_She started to cry, helplessly looking between the two of them, and Diane had grit her teeth against her own tears, refusing to cry until she was alone, later. She came around the table and crouched down, reaching out to hug Emily. Emily stumbled out of the chair and into her arms, clutching her around the neck tightly._

_"Mom," she sobbed. "I didn't do anything wrong," she cried. "It's not fair!"_

_"I know," Diane soothed, kissing her cheek. "You have to fight it again, Emily, that's all," she said. She pulled back. "You can do that, I know you can," she encouraged fiercely. "You're the bravest little girl I know."_

_"You're just saying that!"_

_"No, baby," Diane whispered. "No, baby, I have to believe that," she said sincerely._

_She had to, because if she didn't believe it, she'd lose her hope._

**[present]**

-it had been so difficult just to tell Emily she was going to have to go through it all again, and now to tell her that it was going to be worse, and maybe for nothing at all.

Diane swallowed hard, tuning back in to the conversation, and she heard the doctor saying –

"It means she'll need a very progressive round of chemo and radiation therapy, to get her ready for a transplant," he explained. "She'll be vulnerable to all kinds of illnesses, so we'll have to keep her in the hospital, once we find a donor. Until we find a donor, we'll re-start her on remission induction Chemo, and the gene therapy we do, since she's got the Philadelphia mutation."

Diane stepped forward, clearing her throat.

"How," she asked, her voice hoarse. She swallowed. "How long do we have to find her a donor?"

"Emily's condition isn't deteriorating that quickly," the doctor said sharply. "Her life isn't at risk, yet, because as far as we can tell, she'll still be responsive to chemo. It's if she stops responding that we'll need an immediate donor."

"How life-threatening could this aggressive round of chemo be?" Fornell asked.

The doctor chose his words carefully.

"Chemo isn't fun; it's not the safest treatment, ever, considering how chemical it is. But it's going to save her life."

"Do not promise me that if you can't make good on it," Diane said sharply.

The doctor inclined his head in an understanding manner; he shouldn't promise Emily's survival if he couldn't guarantee it, and he knew that.

Diane took a deep breath.

"We can schedule appointments to test the two of you for a marrow match in the next few days," the doctor said.

"I'll go first," Tobias said automatically.

"You don't have the same blood type as Emily," Diane said dully.

"Blood doesn't need to match. This is a cellular issue," the pediatrician said matter-of-factly, and Diane turned away, putting her thumbnail in her mouth.

She had to tell him anyway – because, if relatives were the next bet to siblings, and strangers were a one in a million chance, she might have to go to Gibbs – and Tobias would want to know why.

* * *

With Emily at her grandmother's for a precious night of normalcy, and Tobias's appointment set for the following morning, Diane met him at his house to talk to him – to prepare him for the fact that he had almost no chance of matching his – daughter.

He sat staring at her, coldly, maybe, or just in disbelief, a mug of coffee gripped tightly in his hands, and she stood in the kitchen, meeting his eyes across the bar. He shifted on the stool, and inclined his head, his lips moving soundlessly for a moment.

"What the hell do you mean, she's not mine?" he asked finally.

She hadn't known how to say it, so she'd just – said it.

'_Emily isn't yours.'_

"I raised her, Diane, I was there when she was born. I watched her take her first steps, I taught her her first word – "

"Biologically, Tobias."

"Ah, I know what you mean," he swore, his face contorting.

He was still trying to process those life-changing words; he had been through hell, the past year, worrying, praying, fighting for this little girl's life, and his ex-wife was standing in his kitchen, confessing that her paternity was in question.

He swore again – it wasn't something he could process, or comprehend; the words didn't even seem to make sense. He loved Emily. Emily was his daughter, his whole world. She couldn't be _someone else's._

He grit his teeth.

"So, what? Diane?" he snapped. "You let me think she was? You pick me, out of whomever you were screwin' around with, to give her a name?" he knew he sounded nasty, and he didn't care.

She swallowed, resting her hand on the counter.

"I didn't know."

"What the _fuck_ do you mean _you didn't know_?" bellowed Fornell, anger rising in his gut. "Were you sleeping with that many men – Diane, we got married because you were pregnant – "

"Fan_tastic_," she snarled sarcastically.

"I mean, _hell_, Diane, we got married quick because you were pregnant – I'm not sayin' I didn't love you, or we wouldn't have, but that's why it happened out of nowhere –but we were serious enough to get married, and you're tellin' me you were cheatin' the whole time we were dating?"

"No, that's not – "

"Then what?"

She slammed her hand down.

"You're putting words in my mouth," her voice cracked. "I didn't know, Tobias, and I wasn't – sleeping around. I was serious about you. I wanted – I wanted to marry you. But we had that fight, that devastating fight, and I thought it was over – "

"Jumped back in the field real quick, did you?"

"I was _distraught_!" she shouted over him. She swallowed, her face red, and her eyes thick with tears. "I just – it was just physical, and it was one night – and how could I possibly," she laughed sarcastically, lifting her eyes – "One night, I fuck another man, and _that's_ the night I got pregnant? When you and I hadn't used birth control the _entire_ time we dated?"

She couldn't believe it – that kind of twist of fate was so cruel, if only because of how she'd felt about Gibbs their entire marriage, how much she'd wanted her life to be with him, her kids to be with him, and when that had fallen apart, she'd settled for Tobias and now –

This.

She put her knuckles to her mouth and pressed, closing her eyes. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I am not some _slut_ who pinned you with a baby," she burst out. "I didn't know, Tobias, goddamnit, I didn't – I had no reason to –"

"How do you know now?" he demanded. "Did you have her tested? You must have had some doubts, Diane – "

"One of her goddamn doctors pointed it out!" Diane interrupted. "Your blood type – it's impossible for your blood type to have resulted in hers," she said hoarsely. "And I didn't – I was so blindsided by that – "

"_That's_ why that prick asked if she was adopted? Because he heard my blood type?"

Diane fell silent, and nodded, more tears hitting her cheeks.

"And you swear you never had doubts?" he said aggressively, leaning forward, accusatory. "You never thought, maybe – "

He noticed her looking down, and shoved his coffee mug away, spilling it all over his carpet as it fell to the ground.

"Jesus _CHRIST_, Diane!" he bellowed.

She put her hands out desperately.

"One moment of doubt, for one hour! The day she was born, her eyes," she paused, swallowing a sob, and trying to go on. "I just, don't know where those gorgeous eyes, came from … you, and me," she felt like she was rambling nonsense – and besides, she had recognized those eyes, she'd just forced herself to forget it.

She licked her lips.

"We were happy, Tobias! We were happy, and you loved her! Should I have shattered it for that? For one stupid night?"

He swallowed hard, and stormed into the kitchen, grabbing a towel. He went to mop up the coffee, but as he crouched and scrubbed the carpet, he knew he was too distracted to do anything but make the stain worse. He stood back up, and threw the towel down.

He paced, rubbing his jaw. He needed time to think, to be alone – but some part of him darkly admitted she was right; it was one of those things that would have destroyed something good that they had, destroyed it for nothing, for a simple stupid slip-up, if Emily had been his, and ruined it forever if she hadn't been - and, she wasn't.

He was angry at Diane, furious even, but still – he even realized, acutely, that his feelings towards Emily didn't change; he still almost couldn't understand the concept of a biological father, because he felt, to the core, _paternal love_ for Emily.

He grit his teeth, and looked at her, lifting his shoulders.

He couldn't imagine some other guy, some idiot ex-she'd crawled to after that fight, being Emily's father, or feeling anything for her – that guy hadn't raised her, hadn't rocked her to sleep, didn't _know_ her.

"You know who it is?" he asked aggressively. "In case I have to ask this son of a bitch for his goddamn bone marrow?" he continued sarcastically. "Do you at least know, Diane, or are we re-enactin' _Mamma Mia_, here?"

She pushed her hair back, compressing her lips, and she nodded. He made a face like he couldn't hear her, and she closed he eyes briefly.

"Yes," she said tightly, her voice low. "Yes, I know who he is," she confirmed. She licked her lips slowly. "I told you, it was one man. One time. One night."

Fornell leaned forward, glaring at her.

"Who?" he demanded in a deadly voice.

She looked at him miserably, and suddenly, he understood why Emily had such blue eyes.

He swore.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

* * *

He hadn't been thrilled to find Stephanie in the basement – not when he had Hollis with him, not when it had been a good evening with Hollis, despite Ducky's revelations about Shannon and Kelly, and not when Stephanie was just another reminder of failed relationships, and why they failed.

He played the gentleman, though, and afforded the courtesy of a talk, of walking her to her car. The night air was cool, and he started small.

"Why'd you quit your job?" he asked neutrally.

"Huh?" she seemed caught off guard. "Oh." She laughed, like she was not surprised he knew. "I'm…I'm moving." She said. She shrugged. "Philadelphia. My parents are getting old," she ruminated. "And, uh. Shelley had a baby," she said.

They reached her car, and Gibbs raised his eyebrows.

"Another one?" he asked – Stephanie's sister had a whole brood of wild children; it had always been something Stephanie envied.

"She's a baby factory," Stephanie said. She looked down. "It's a good thing someone in my family is," she murmured bitterly.

Gibbs watched her – there, a reason for their divorce. She had never stopped talking about how another kid might help him heal, and he had never stopped resenting her for trying to replace Kelly.

Now, he softened his thinking.

She sighed.

"I guess I'm gong to be that … doting aunt, that still looks great in a bikini," she joked half-heartedly.

He felt guilty, uncomfortable, so he forced a small smile, and reached behind her to get the car door. She stopped him, hand warm on his.

"Eric and I split up," she confessed – her boyfriend, the cheater. "He told me about his _affair_. You knew," she said, meeting his eyes. "After all my ranting in your office, you missed a perfect opportunity to throw that in my face."

He shook his head slowly.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he said sincerely.

"No, you wouldn't," she said, choking on the words. "It just never seems to work out for me, Jethro."

Struck with a sudden sense of sympathy – _me neither_, he thought – he stepped forward and put his arms around her gently. He never had liked to see Stephanie cry. She had such a good heart.

"Ah, I'm sorry," he said quietly, rubbing her back. "Me, us," he said in her ear. "Not your fault."

He stepped back, letting her go, and she took a breath.

"It wasn't anybody's fault," she said softly.

He opened the door this time, and she let him, climbing in. As he went to close it, she stopped him, and pointed with a resigned smile.

"But we'll always have Moscow," she said.

He shut her door with a smile, and she started the car and drove off. He watched her for a moment – there was closure, there at least, and that was nice – and he wondered how he would go back in to Hollis, now.

He trudged towards the house, dragging his feet back to the basement – and he noticed a black SUV in his driveway, suddenly; must have driven up when he was talking to Steph. The plate was Fornell's, and that put something hollow in his gut: Emily. He was waiting on news about Emily, and Fornell had dropped off the planet since the bloody nose incident.

Gibbs swallowed, and came into the house. He felt assaulted immediately – Fornell was leaning against his fireplace, and from the basement, he could hear music – Kelly playing piano, and then laughing – and then Shannon's voice.

_I love you, Daddy!_ He heard Kelly say earnestly.

"Tobias," he managed to say gruffly, trying to ignore the sounds.

What the hell was Hollis doing, going through his things?

Fornell looked at him long and hard, something unreadable in his eyes. His jaw was tight, his face pale.

"Em okay?" Gibbs asked warily.

Footsteps on the stairs, Hollis came up. She looked at Fornell, and then she stepped up to Gibbs, taking his hand.

"I'm going," she said hoarsely.

He took a moment to look at her; her eyes were wet, and they said: we'll talk later. We'll try to salvage this, please Jethro, later. He nodded, and bent to kiss her cheek – no matter what happened next, he knew that tape had ended it. They could drag it out a week or so, but he could see it dawning on her: he wasn't over them.

He hadn't put it behind him.

She left, and Gibbs cleared his throat, moving towards the basement.

"Bourbon?" he offered.

Fornell shook his head.

"Em's cancer's back," Fornell said.

Gibbs stopped. He slid his hands into his pockets, and clenched his jaw hard.

"She needs a bone marrow transplant."

Gibbs shoulders sank – that was serious, a transplant. It seemed … last-ditch, desperate. He tilted his head at Fornell, and refrained from offering a drink again, thinking of Kelly's voice downstairs, all he had left of her, and thinking of Emily Fornell, and how hard she was fighting.

"You or Diane a match?" he asked.

"Don't know yet," Fornell said. He lifted his shoulders, shook his head. "I won't be, or so she told me."

Gibbs looked at him blankly, and Fornell rubbed his jaw, grinning a little – grinning in a resigned way.

"You got back from Europe, and you were shocked as hell Diane and I were married, like that," Fornell snapped. "I was thinkin,' you thought I was insane because she cleaned _you_ out, but now," he trailed off.

"Tobias," Gibbs said sharply. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Tobias grit his teeth, and looked flippant, lifting his shoulders again.

"She's not mine, Jethro. Emily."

Gibbs stared at him.

Fornell gave him a pointed look.

"So," he said abruptly. "You see Diane, ah, 'bout, end of June ninety-nine?" he asked.

Gibbs took a step back unsteadily, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets.

He'd almost forgotten – that he had.

* * *

_and, of course, this chapter ends circa **'Ex-File' in season 5.**_

_-Alexandra_


	5. 4

_**a/n:** picking up pretty immediately after last._

* * *

There was something hollow about what they were doing: mechanically trying to salvage something that had already ended. He was even further away than he'd been last week, when he'd had Stephanie to deal with, and she'd listened to the tape of Kelly; tonight, there was more on his mind – Kelly, Emily, Diane – and none of those people were conducive to what he was doing right now.

He slipped his hands lower on Hollis' back, teasing the hem of her blouse. She squeezed her thighs on either side of him, trailing kisses over his jaw, down his neck. He took a deep breath, memorizing the scent of her hair, for posterity's sake.

"Jethro," she murmured huskily.

She sounded pleading, desperate. He wasn't sure if she wanted him to move faster, or if she was just giving up – he knew she was going to go to Hawaii; he was waiting for the fight they would have when she gave him the final ultimatum: make me a promise, and get over your wife and daughter, or watch me go.

He didn't want to have that fight; part of him hoped she'd pull a Shepard on him, and just beat it.

Her hands moved down his chest to his jeans, and he tilted his head, kissing her, while he ran his hands around her waist and then to the buttons on her shirt – might as well, right?

He'd just committed to whatever she wanted this to be, when he distinctly heard the front door open. She tensed immediately, freezing, and he let his head fall back, groaning in annoyance – if Jenny walked in, he was going to shoot himself.

"You don't even lock the door when you have company?" Hollis hissed in his ear.

She straightened, and his hands fell to her thighs. He looked over – and there stood a redhead, but it was worse than Director Shepard.

He grit his teeth and shifted roughly, nearly knocking Hollis off of him as he sat up. He rubbed his forehead, as she moved over and ran a hand through her hair, turning and reaching for her shoes, a tight, annoyed look on her face.

"Who's this one?" she asked sardonically.

Diane eyed her silently, and then roughly held up two fingers.

"Second."

Hollis looked at Gibbs grimly.

"Is she counting Shannon?"

Diane clicked her tongue, taken aback. She held up another finger.

"Third, then," she remarked, and shot a look at Gibbs. "You're filling in girlfriends, now?" she asked, slightly acidly. "Mature."

Diane clutched at the bag on her arm, her eyes roaming over the living room. Not much had changed since she left him – except things had gotten older, and maybe emptier. She sniffed, and looked at Hollis.

"I'm impressed," she said dully. "I have to admit, this isn't the woman I'd expected to find on your lap."

Hollis looked at her, and then turned to Gibbs, her lips pursed.

"Tobias suggested you were sleeping with your boss," Diane remarked.

Hollis lifted an eyebrow, and an incredulous look broke over her face. Gibbs held out a hand, on the brink of defending himself – but it wasn't worth it; their relationship was over – he was better off giving her a reason to leave him, and leave him angry, so she'd be less sorrowful.

"Leroy, can we speak?" Diane asked shortly.

Hollis whistled in disbelief, and yanked her coat off the wooden table by the couch, standing up. She grabbed her purse, and she didn't say a word to Gibbs, seeing his disaster of a history with relationships for what it was, and making the definitive decision to leave.

"You're better off," Diane said matter-of-factly, giving Hollis a cold wink as she brushed past – and the last Gibbs saw of Hollis Mann, were her cold, pretty eyes as she glared at him one last time.

She slammed the front door, and he held out his palm.

"Jesus, Diane," he barked, shocked, for some reason, at her viciousness.

"I was looking out for her sanity."

"The hell you were," he snapped, standing up. "I wasn't screwin' around on her – "

"Tobias told me you brought Jennifer Shepard with you when you took Emily to the hospital. What was I supposed to think?" she asked innocently.

"She drove us!" Gibbs growled.

Diane gave him a pointed look, and cocked an eyebrow sharply – as if _that_ made him look any less guilty.

He seemed to realize that, and rubbed his jaw tensely. She came forward, letting her purse slip off her shoulder, and setting it down heavily on the table.

"Sit," she instructed seriously, taking a place on the couch. She leaned against the armrest, and waited until he stiffly and reluctantly obeyed, resting his arms on his knees.

He looked down at his palms, swallowing hard. He had expected this, on some level – Stephanie coming to confront him last week had seemed like some sort of omen, and after Fornell's little revelation, he had waited – he hadn't known what to do, what to say, how to proceed.

Being told he was the father of a child he'd known for seven years as his friend's daughter did damage to him – made him guilty, angry, desperate; he felt like he'd missed something. It wasn't as if he was some guy finding out he was a father without knowledge of what that meant – he was a father. He knew what it meant, except – he hadn't known about her.

"Tobias told me he was here," Diane said sharply.

Gibbs dug his feet into the carpet, still looking down. He lifted his head, eyes on his front door, and nodded curtly.

Diane leaned forward, frustrated. Her voice shook slightly.

"Of all the times for you to be silent," she hissed.

He looked over at her quickly, his eyes flashing.

"What the hell do you want me to say?" he demanded aggressively, some of that anger spilling over. His eyes searched hers roughly, and his lip curled. "You didn't tell me you were seein' him," he accused.

Back then – after their divorce, they had found it hard to completely separate themselves; on lonely nights, hard nights, they'd sought each other out – it had been less frequent as the months went on, but he hadn't known she was seeing Tobias when he'd been with her that last time, right before he went to Europe with Shepard.

"Well, you found out," she said succinctly – reminding him of how suddenly she'd been married, how startled he'd been when she'd abruptly been Mrs. Fornell.

He gave her a look.

"We were sleepin' together," he growled. He didn't know when she'd started dating Fornell, but there had to have been at least some overlap, even if their encounters were rare.

"We were divorced," she said curtly. "Oh, don't get moral on me now, Leroy. Sex was the only good thing about our marriage, and you even got bored of that."

He knew what she was insinuating, and he resented it: he didn't like that she'd been using him while she was with Fornell, that made him feel like a traitor, but he liked her insinuation that he deserved the karma less.

"Didn't touch another woman while we were married," he snarled.

Her name hung in the air, like Hollis' perfume. Diane sneered skeptically, and he was angrier with her for it. He may have done her wrong seven ways to Sunday, but he had never done that.

"How many times you gonna accuse me of screwin' around, Diane?" he demanded.

"You never give me a clear answer," she fired back.

"It's a trap!" he barked.

"What the hell's that mean?"

"I say I didn't touch her, you say it was an emotional affair. I say I liked her, but never screwed around, you claim I couldn't possibly have resisted and I'm full of shit," he griped cynically – he had it figured out; when it came to Diane's jealous of Jenny, there was no way to win.

"Which was it?"

He looked genuinely furious. She gave him a spiteful look.

"Wasn't one or the other," he growled. "She was just a gooddamn pain in the ass the Director stuck with me. She wasn't worth a damn, when she started, just," he looked pissed at the memory, "just a smug woman with a chip on her shoulder. Didn't look twice at her until –"

"Until?" Diane goaded icily.

His jaw tightened. It was none of her business. He flung his arms out, frustrated.

"I didn't have time to screw around with a junior agent, Diane, my marriage was fallin' apart! And you 'n' me happened at a bad time," he snapped. "Get it out of your head – "

"I like the thought," she interrupted grimly. "If you'd just cheated, I'd have been able to leave you," she snapped, to show him how quickly. "Like _that_."

He stared at her, jaw tense, startled – and his face darkened even more.

"Don't pretend I did that to you – just to make me the bad guy – "

"Don't pretend you weren't," she said coolly, simply.

She rubbed her head, and turned away, her shoulders slumping. She looked dully at the table in front of her.

"Why are we having _this_ fight?" she murmured tensely.

"You tell me!" he raged. "You barged in here!"

"And interrupted you," she added blankly. He thought there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "We need to talk about Emily."

"Speaking of cheating," he muttered sarcastically.

Diane held up her hand.

"You cheated me our entire marriage. You cheated me out of the love I deserved, and you promised to give. We're done with that word," she said firmly, hollowly.

He clenched his teeth. He shifted his knees, and sat forward. He had been trying to process all of this – in his particular way of not processing anything – for days. It was time to have it out – maybe he could figure this out, then.

He looked at his hands, and cleared his throat.

"Tobias mean what he said?"

Diane compressed her lips, her cheeks pale.

"Her blood type is AB. He's O. He can't be her father. I wasn't with anyone else."

_Besides the two of you_, was the unspoken statement.

She confirmed it, and Gibbs pressed his knuckles together until they were white, staring at them.

"I can get a paternity test if you want it."

He moved his fingers, shook his head. He didn't think Diane was lying – in fact, the way his gut spun, he almost knew it was true. He didn't know – why he'd never even considered it before, since Emily had been born so immediately after their marriage. Maybe he hadn't wanted to consider it, or maybe it genuinely never occurred to him that it could have happened.

Diane pushed her hair back.

"I didn't –consciously cheat on Tobias," she said quietly. "I thought we were over. We had – a huge fight. Bad fight. And he walked out."

"Why the hell did you come to me?" Gibbs asked tiredly – he understood that they'd done it before, but considering he was Fornell's friend, a good buddy, he didn't get that.

"Spite," she said, lifting her shoulders. "Revenge," she tried. "It's always easier to sleep with an ex than to find some stranger. Safer. He proposed two days later."

Gibbs grunted. He rubbed his jaw, and looked over at her.

"You didn't think, that there might be a _possibility_ – "

"All the sex I was having with Tobias, and one night with you is what knocks me up?" she laughed sardonically, blinking her eyes rapidly. "It isn't fair. It's cruel. You know, you were the man I," she broke off, and swallowed. "It was one night, out of a hundred. What was I going to do, 'fess up for the slimmest chance? Ruin my next chance at happiness for _you_? You weren't better. You weren't going to come back from Europe for me."

He didn't say anything. He knew she was right, but he was still angry, guilty, in the pit of his stomach. He understood the delicate dynamics of the situation, but he felt deprived, and the sorrow he'd felt over Emily's condition was magnified almost to a panic.

She shook her head, bitter, and licked her lips.

"For all I know, you'd hate the baby because she wasn't Kelly."

He looked up sharply.

"No," he said sharply, his eyes meeting hers. "She's my _kid_, Diane, I couldn't hate – "

"She's Tobias' kid," Diane said hoarsely. "She doesn't know anything else."

He grit his teeth, and pressed his knuckles to his chin. He closed his eyes tightly.

"If she hadn't gotten sick, I never would have … this never would have come out," Diane said sourly. "But it has and," she bit her lip, swallowing. "And she needs a bone marrow transplant," Diane stopped, her words hanging in the air.

Gibbs got up stiffly, and paced to the fireplace, leaning against it. He grit his teeth together hard – was she asking him for his bones, for his blood? His immediate thought was that he'd do anything to make Emily well – it was daunting, how instantly he loved her, just knowing that her blood and her genes were his, made him scared to lose her – a little girl he hadn't even raised – and determined to save her.

"Tobias isn't a match," Diane said hoarsely. "I … I'm only a partial match. Mine could work but … complications could kill her. Leroy," she said, taking a deep breath. "I can't watch her die. You understand that."

She was standing next to him suddenly.

"I know this is a mess," she pleaded softly. "You, of all people – you understand. I can't lose her."

She touched his arm, and he resented that she appealed to him like that. He felt she was using Kelly against him, and his guilt was magnified; he didn't want Tobias or Diane to feel that kind of pain, but he felt like he'd been robbed – even if he did believe that Diane had not tried to deceive him – and now, he felt like he was suffocating.

"What do you want, Diane?" he asked. "You want me to get tested? Let them cut me open?"

She closed her mouth tightly.

"Leroy," she burst out angrily. "I could stand here and be a martyr and tell you I have no right to ask you this – and maybe I don't, but she's my _child_. She's my baby and this is killing her, and I don't care if makes me the most hateful bitch in the world, I _will_ put this on you. I _will_ ask you for this."

He tightened his jaw – it stunned him, how much he understood what she was saying. She would do anything, and he respected that in her, as a mother. He, too, would have done anything to save Kelly, if he'd been here; if he could.

He shook her arm off. He turned away, and then turned back, lifting his shoulders seriously.

"What've I got to do?"

The look on her face almost killed him, she looked so grateful, but so scared. She explained in a shaky voice – the appointment to be tested, what it entailed, and he gave her silent nods, and said he'd make one – he didn't say much else, and then he silently told her she needed to go – because he needed to drink, and he couldn't stand looking at her anymore.

She was leaving, her face still pale, her lashes thick with tears, and when she was at the door, he called her back hoarsely – Kelly had been healthy … but he wondered if Emily –

"Annie," he said huskily.

She cringed at the old nickname.

"Don't call me that."

He hesitated a moment.

"Is it my fault she's sick?" he asked finally.

He met her eyes. She closed hers a moment, and shook her head.

"It's her cells, not her genes," she placated. "No, Jethro. It's not your fault."

She left, and he sat down on his couch, head in his hands – _not his fault_. He'd heard that so many times – it's not your fault Jethro; it's not your fault, Gibbs.

* * *

There were two tumblers of liquor on the oak bar; one contained bourbon, the other, vodka. He had always known that Fornell's drink of choice was the Russian staple, but he'd never understood it: he hated vodka.

Fornell flicked a quarter into his glass and then took the shot, swirling the glass around so the coin clinked against it. Gibbs watched him, his finger running around the edge of his own. Tobias was _drinking_, so he figured he'd better take it slow, for the sake of driving.

Fornell snorted, and set his glass down loudly, tapping the bar for another. The turnaround was quick, and he handed the bartender his credit card.

"Unbelievable," Fornell muttered, leaning back.

Gibbs smirked.

"This whole mess."

Gibbs nodded.

It was set in stone; he was a match for Emily's marrow – something the doctor thought was shocking. It seemed the chances of parents being a good match were low, but somehow, Gibbs was what she needed.

"A year of my sanity and my paychecks, and you're the one who's gonna save her," Fornell growled. He shrugged. "Maybe."

He was feeling bitter; helpless. Gibbs related to that feeling: he'd felt that way when he'd stood at Kelly's grave. He understood that there was an unspoken rift between them, though neither of them even wanted Diane; it cut to the core of Fornell that Gibbs, because of simple biology, rather than years of care, love, and family, could do what he couldn't.

"So it was one night," he remarked.

Gibbs nodded. They hadn't spoken about it – Diane had been doing all the talking, and it was when they were all in the same room that it had all blown up; she was desperate, Tobias was trying to stomach it all –

**[one week ago]**

_Diane had covered her mouth and closed her eyes in relief, tears springing to her green eyes, the moment the pediatrician had handed her the chart confirming Gibbs was a match. _

"_We'll start Emily on Myeloablative treatment immediately," he'd said, giving her an encouraging smile. "It's going to be rough, but you've got a match." The man had looked around, cleared his throat, and excused himself. "You all have some things to discuss."_

_He left the room, and Tobias had kicked the wall, shaking his head. Gibbs looked down at his palms, and then looked up, seeking Diane's counsel._

"_Myel," he started, his face contorting. "What treatment?"_

"_Total body irradiation," Diane said faintly. "They're going to kill her marrow to kill the cancer. It will make her … weak, susceptible to infection, but," she took a deep breath. "The transplant will heal that." _

_Fornell turned around, and thrust his arm out. _

"_You haven't even asked him if he's gonna do it," he growled._

_Diane looked astonished, and Fornell rounded on her. _

"_He said he'd get tested, after you ambushed him, threw all this in his face like you did mine," he shouted. "He didn't make you any promises."_

"_Fornell," Gibbs started, sitting up. He rested a hand on his knee, and eyed him warily. _

"_You think he'll just have a procedure like this for you?"_

"_This is for Emily!" Diane cried, pushing Fornell back. She looked stricken. _

_Fornell laughed tensely, shaking his head. He lifted his hand and pointed at her._

"_You've got a hell of a nerve, Diane," he yelled. "You've got no – effin' – clue the bomb you dropped on all of us, and you – you know exactly how to fuck with him," Fornell pointed at Gibbs, "to get him – "_

"_Tobias," barked Gibbs, standing up. He gave his friend a hard look, shutting him up. He didn't know why Fornell was championing him like he was some oppressed character in this drama, but it wasn't necessary. _

_He shook his head, and folded his arms, before he walked over and took the chart from Diane. He considered it a long time, not really seeing it – he'd made Abby tell him about the procedure; it wasn't too invasive. He wouldn't miss work. It wouldn't kill him. The only person it would be hard on would be Emily, but it might save her. _

_And he – he wanted to save her. _

_He rubbed his jaw, and he had turned to both of them, shaking the chart. _

"_She gets it, Tobias," he said shortly, surprising himself with his defense. "She's just tryin' to save her daughter."_

"_You think I'm not? You think because her blood type is yours," Fornell spat, "I don't love her like she's my daughter? It would kill me to lose her!" he shouted. "But I don't know if I can handle you being the one who sweeps in and saves her, especially since she," he pointed violently at Diane, "has always had it bad for you." _

_Diane covered her face and looked down, and then she looked up, viciously. She rounded on Tobias._

"_I cannot change what I did. I can't change Emily's paternity, but I'll be damned if I let your jealousy or your annoyance at not being a match kill her – I'm not a match either. It kills me that I can't do this for her. I can't sleep. I can't breathe. The thought of losing Emily is tearing me apart," she broke off, her voice cracking, and she gestured to Gibbs. "He'll do it, Tobias, he'll do this, and if it's because it makes him feel better about his guilt over Kelly – "_

"_Diane!" bellowed Tobias, offended. "Don't do that to him!"_

"_I will do that to him!" Diane said hysterically. She turned to Gibbs. "I am sorry, Leroy," she'd sobbed. "I am sorry about Kelly. I am sorry I never understood what you were going through – but even the idea, that I might lose Emily, the idea – I get it. I get why you are the way you are. And please, if you can find it in you, don't make me have to experience that. Emily is here because of you. She can stay here because of you and I –"_

_Gibbs nodded abruptly, taking her shoulders. He didn't want to hear anymore, and he looked at Fornell pointedly, passing Diane to him. He set his jaw, holding the chart loosely in his hands, and he swallowed, looking down at it._

_Fornell was out of his mind with grief, but it would be worse if Emily died. Diane was losing her grip, and he felt like the only one here who was steady – but a look at that chart, at the checks and the green marks that indicated matches, he felt resolved – he felt, finally, like he wasn't failing – he wasn't watching Franks take his son off life support, he wasn't staring at his family's graves, and he wasn't letting Michael O'Neill slip through his fingers as he jumped._

_He could get it right. _

_He tapped the chart, and shrugged. _

"_It's nothin,' Tobias," he said hoarsely. "Had it worse," he said. _

_Fornell looked torn between extreme relief and anger, and grit his teeth. Diane closed her eyes tiredly. _

"_It's Em," Gibbs went on. It was a no-brainer. "Hell, I'd do it for you, even if she weren't," he stopped short of saying 'mine' because he thought claiming her would just damage Tobias. _

_He just stopped, and Fornell let out a breath._

"_We can't afford it," he growled to Diane. "You know that. You – you were right," he said, stepping back. "We should've taken her to St. Jude's." _

_Gibbs sat down in a chair, taking a pen to start looking over the forms. He thought of his empty house, his cold basement, the things he never bought because material things had never replaced what he lost. _

_He said it without thinking, gruff, and it set off a bigger fight than they'd already had – _

"_I can pay for it." _

**[present]**

**-**he was well aware that his offer to pay for Emily's surgery and the rest of her treatment was eating Tobias alive: he felt like he couldn't save his daughter in anyway, but in spite of that, Gibbs refused to let Emily Fornell die for something as stupid as the Fornell's lack of money.

He had savings, he had military benefits, he had a Purple Heart stipend, and he had a 401K. The fight had been brutal – even Diane had balked at letting him pay – but it wasn't about making them subjugated to him, or buying rights to Emily; it was about saving her life. He'd suggested he go to the military and register her as his daughter, so she'd get his benefits, but Fornell and Diane had refused – too confusing for Emily – and so, after the teeth and claws of the argument – it had been settled; Gibbs would finance the treatment, and Diane would go back to work to pay him back.

He didn't want her money – but if that made her feel better, he'd acquiesce. He just wanted them to shut up and get to fixing Emily.

Fornell grunted next to him, and looked over.

"One night?" he repeated, fishing.

Gibbs shrugged. He nodded again.

"Sex with an ex," he said, something Fornell would understand – Diane was right, it was easier to seek out an ex.

"After you divorced, you kept goin' at it? On and off?"

Gibbs cracked a small smirk, and Fornell laughed hollowly.

"That mean … she coulda been at my place one night, yours the next?"

"She never told me she was seein' you," Gibbs grunted. He nodded grimly, and shook his head –

Diane. Hell of a woman.

Fornell snorted, disgruntled.

"Makes me feel a little too lose to you, man," he muttered.

Gibbs laughed, and took his shot of bourbon. He brushed his knuckles against his jaw, and Fornell looked down into his own glass, swirling a coin around again. The clinking noise was loud, and Fornell seemed to struggle.

"Appreciate what you're doin'," Fornell said, choking up. "For Em."

Gibbs reached over and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing roughly. He was silent in his support, and just nodded – Fornell had to understand that it was an easy choice for him, and easy thing to do, to help Emily.

* * *

Diane sat on the hospital bed in Emily's brightly decorated hospital suite. She was curled around Emily, both of them on top of the immaculate sheets, and Emily rested her head heavily against her mother's chest.

Trying to soothe her, Diane stroked her short hair methodically. It was thinning again, and it kept coming out in her fingers, but she ignored it, hoping her touch was giving some comfort.

"Mommy," Emily said weakly, tilting her head up. "How many more days?"

"Not much longer, Emily," Diane assured her.

Emily's last test had come back with what they wanted; she was good to go ahead with the transplant in a couple of weeks. The aggressive chemo had taken its toll on her, though. She'd been in the hospital for over a month, unable to do schoolwork or really play, and she felt bad all the time.

"I'll be all better after the bone marrow?" she asked.

"Your body will have a clean start," Diane said vaguely.

She looked down and stroked Emily's pale cheek. Emily nodded, and rested her head again.

"I want to throw up," she murmured pitifully. She coughed. "But I can't."

She hadn't eat anything today, just drank some water. She wasn't feeling well enough. Diane shifted and reached for Emily's shoulders, giving her a light massage.

"Do you want some Sprite?" she asked.

"No. The fizz hurts my throat."

Diane nodded. She got more comfortable.

"Is Daddy coming to see me tonight?" Emily asked.

"Yes," Diane assured her. She swallowed. "He might be kind of late, sweetie."

"That's okay. He can wake me up," Emily murmured earnestly.

Diane squeezed her shoulders lightly, but silently disagreed. If Emily was asleep when Tobias got here, he would sit quietly by her bedside; he wouldn't wake her. She needed her sleep.

"My bones hurt," Emily complained.

"I know, sweetheart," Diane murmured.

Emily sighed.

"Is Gibbs going to see me?" she asked.

Diane swallowed. Emily's doctor had recommended that Emily and Gibbs spend some time together before the procedure, just so it wasn't weird or scary for Emily. He knew Gibbs was a family friend, but he didn't know that his suggestion was awkward for all involved – still, Gibbs had complied, and dropped by about once a week to spend an hour with Emily.

She'd dropped the 'agent' from his name once she was familiar with his visits.

"He's very busy right now," Diane said. "He'll come see you before he has his procedure," she assured her.

Fornell had told her that the Director of NCIS was being investigated for murder, at the moment, and Gibbs was holding that situation together – and apparently, he'd almost lost his Israeli agent in a shooting incident, among all the things that were going on.

"You know, Mom," Emily said tiredly. "I'm glad Gibbs matched me. I wouldn't want some strange man's bones put in me. But I like Gibbs. He didn't get mad that time I bled all over his stuff."

Diane licked her lips.

"They aren't going to put Agent Gibbs' bones in you for real," she explained. "They're going to take some of his marrow to replace your sick marrow."

Emily nodded. She didn't fully understand all of it, naturally, at her age, but she got the gist.

"What if he gets my sickness?"

"He won't," Diane promised. "They're not putting your marrow in him. His marrow will fix itself, because it's strong."

Emily lifted her arm and flexed, smiling as brightly as she could. She looked up at Diane.

"So he's like Superman," she giggled.

"Sure," Diane allowed.

"I'm lucky he matched," Emily mumbled, contently.

"Very lucky," Diane agreed.

Emily yawned, and then tilted her head closer, holding on to Diane for comfort.

"Mommy, can you read me my book? My eyes hurt too much."

Diane nodded, and leaned over, reaching for the book on the bedside table. She opened _Nancy Drew_ to their most recent chapter mark, and began to read quietly.

* * *

He stood on her doorstep, knowing full well he could walk right in, but choosing to ring the doorbell anyway. She opened it in seconds, and a resigned smile touched her face.

"Surprised it took you so long," she greeted, biting her tongue a moment. "To check up on me."

She tilted her head, and let him in, and he noted how casual she looked. He had been wary of Jen taking care of Carson by herself, though he'd known hers was a safe place for the kid to be, but –

"Except, that's not why you're here, is it?" she guessed.

He looked pointedly down at her waist, and her eyes followed – to her empty cell phone holder. She laughed, and pushed her hair back, looking sheepish.

"Which explains where my cell phone went," she remarked.

"Kids," he grunted, and walked towards her study. "Jazz?" he asked, hearing the music. Jazz wasn't really Jen's style.

"His favorite," Jenny sighed.

"Ziva was right," Gibbs drawled, standing in the doorway with Jenny and watching Carson. "DiNozzo."

Jenny smirked, and watched from the doorway as Gibbs went in.

"You get lost Agent Gibbs?" Carson asked, looking scared.

Jenny stood there, while he talked to him – she thought about how broken their relationship was, and all the stressful shit that had happened in these past few weeks – personal, and professional.

This – this thing with Carson, this was going to be her last case, before she took a sabbatical to get her affairs in order. He didn't know that, Gibbs, and she wasn't going to tell him. He had enough on his plate, and even though it pained her, she was glad their relationship wasn't so good, right now, so maybe it wouldn't hurt him, when her health problems came out.

Watching him with that kid made something in her stomach ache, and something in her heartthrob, but there was nothing to be done about it now. It was too late for her; it was too complicated for him.

She hoped this thing with Emily worked out, because she could see it healing him, somehow. Like he had – somehow, in an inexplicable way – been better after he'd reconnected with that blonde woman, Maddie Tyler. He'd been – calmer, in those weeks, until the Frog had come back.

He was walking towards her now, his conversation finished.

"I forgot," she said softly, when he reached her.

"What?"

"How good you are with kids," she said.

He sighed, and looked down, laughing a little. She would never understand that comments like that didn't make him feel good – it made him feel lost. He did – have all this desire to care for children, repressed parental feelings that had been bottled up, and being reminded of it was hard.

"I think he's worried about his dad," Gibbs said. "That's why you can't get him to sleep."

Jenny looked past him silently, and then smiled softly.

"I guess he's not worried anymore," she remarked, noticing Carson dead asleep in the chair. "Would you," she paused. "Would you carry him to bed?"

"Knee bothering you?" Gibbs asked, turning to get the kid. He teased her; he knew Carson was too big for her, injury or no.

She shrugged, and followed him up to the guest bedroom. She didn't tell him that more often than not these days, her hands shook too badly to hold anything steady, and her muscles ached just from lifting a pencil.

He put Carson to bed expertly enough, and then they were back downstairs, standing in her doorway.

"He'll be fine," Gibbs assured her.

"It's been a long time," she responded. "Us. Together outside of the office."

"Not if you ask Diane," he muttered, thinking of what she'd said to Hollis. Jenny arched an eyebrow, and he met her eyes. "Paris," he said. "If you don't count hospitals, and car chases."

"I don't."

He put on his jacket.

"Once upon a time, I would have asked you to say," she said slowly. "I wouldn't have taken no for an answer."

He pulled at his collar, and met her eyes.

"No."

She swallowed.

"What happened, Jethro?"

She didn't know why she asked; she knew what had happened. Most of it was on her, a lot of it was on him – regardless, it had been over for years, no matter how she felt, no matter how she wanted to change that.

"You made a choice," he reiterated.

She lowered her eyes a moment, accepting that.

"I had to do what was best for me."

Now she knew it _had_ been best, in a way. Even if he had always been the right man, the only man she'd ever loved, she knew now that he hadn't been ready for her back then, and when he was ready for her – she'd be dead. This thing – helping Emily – was really going to save him, and she wouldn't be here to see it.

She smirked sadly, and he turned to leave.

"Night, Jen."

"Jethro," she stopped him, standing in the doorway. She shivered. "It's – when is it?"

He knew what she was asking.

"Tuesday," he said.

In two days; that's when he went in for the bone marrow harvest for Emily. Jenny stood there, looking at him, and she reached out, taking his hand for a moment, and squeezing. She wasn't sure what to say, so she narrowed her eyes curiously.

"Is she really yours?" she asked.

She's heard it through the grapevine; DiNozzo figured out why Abby was researching bone marrow procedures for Gibbs, he gossiped with Ziva, Ziva found out from Gibbs – Ziva told Jenny everything.

He looked down at her hand.

"My daughter died," he said hoarsely. "Sixteen years ago."

Jenny held her breath. She'd never, ever heard him speak about it before – not so bluntly, and not so consciously; and she wasn't sure what he was trying to say. She stepped out onto the porch, and put her hand on his lapel.

"Good luck," she breathed sincerely.

She kissed him chastely, lips brushing the corners of his mouth, and he left, alone.

* * *

Gibbs stood outside the door of Emily Fornell's hospital room, staring down at the doll in his hands. He was dressed more plainly than usual, in jeans, and an old sweatshirt Kelly had made him – and a hat.

"You can go in," Diane said from behind him.

He glanced at her, and she nodded, her arms folded.

"She's awake."

He nodded, swallowed, and still took a moment. He wanted to see her before he had anesthesia, so he could reassure her. Fornell said she was worried about him, and that almost broke his heart – that a little girl with cancer was worried about _him_.

He went into the room. Emily was sitting up in bed, tubes in her nose, an IV in her arm, and her Rapunzel wig on. She was colouring on her knees – a _My Little Pony_ colouring book, and she smiled at him around her wires when he came in.

"Gibbs!" she greeted brightly. "I'm drawing you a thank you picture," she said, tapping her crayons on her book.

He slowly sat down in a chair by her bed, and smiled.

"You don't have to do that," he said gruffly.

She nodded.

"Uh-huh," she said. "Mommy said, if this works, I can do tap dance again, and go back to school, and she said maybe she can try and take me back to Disney world, maybe," Emily told him rapidly. "So I definitely will thank you."

He smiled at her, inclining his head. She beamed back, and sat up straighter, twisting her Rapunzel hair around in her hands.

"Have you fiiiiinally finished your boat?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"What did ya name her?"

He had told Emily that boats were always girls.

"Kelly," he said.

"I like it," Emily said matter-of-factly.

"Me too," Gibbs said. "It's a present for my goddaughter, in Mexico. Her name's Amira."

"Ooh, that's pretty," Emily said.

Gibbs nodded. He looked down at the doll in his hands, holding it tightly. He had a black marker in his pocket, ready to write on it, but he couldn't bring himself to, just yet – he was working up the strength to part with it, thinking about the photo in his wallet, and his talk with Maddie Tyler –

**[two weeks ago]**

_He sat in a cluttered apartment, drinking bad coffee and watching his late daughter's old best friend rummage through her junk._

_"It's around her somewhere," she said. "Do you want some more coffee?"_

_"No," he'd said politely. "Fine."_

_"Ugh, soon as I graduate, I am moving back to Oakland," she laughed. "This place is such a pigsty. There's this really great animal hospital there," she began, taking a photo album and sitting down, "offered me a job. Just some lab work. Eventually I plan to specialize in horses," she said, and smiled. "Kelly and I were crazy about horses."_

_He just watched her, listening to her talk._

_"Oh, here it is," she said, handing him the album._

_He took it, and found himself staring at a picture of her, and his daughter – smiling brightly, staring up at him from the yard, keeping secrets and playing happily._

_"Can't remember who took that photo," Maddie said._

_Gibbs studied it quietly._

_"I did," he remembered suddenly. He remembered the day. "I never did find out what was so funny."_

_"She never told you?" Maddie asked brightly. He looked away, and Maddie's smile faded. "Sorry," she whispered._

_He hesitated._

_"I shipped out to Iraq that month. They followed me all the way to Pendleton. Last time I saw 'em."_

_He ran his hand across his jaw, remembering that day. Waving goodbye._

_"It was a time capsule," Maddie revealed gently. "We'd filled this toy suitcase with all of our treasures. Kelly's, mostly. And…buried it in your backyard. We were sitting on it," she said._

_Gibbs laughed hoarsely._

_Maddie looked up, her lips trembling._

_"I never stopped crying," she said softly. "I still think about her. After all these years, wonder what she'd be like."_

_"Like you," Gibbs said sincerely._

_She smiled at him, and jolted abruptly._

_"Here," she said shakily. "You should have – You should have this," she started taking the photo out._

_"No," he said dully. "No, that's your memory."_

_She had held it out to him insistently._

_"Our memory."_

_He laughed again, and accepted the photo – Maddie and Kelly immortalized forever, with smiles on their faces._

**[present]**

He had gone home, and dug up that old time capsule – but in the end, something had persuaded him not to open it. He didn't know what was in it, and he wasn't meant to know – he didn't need that box to know whom his daughter was, or that he'd loved her. Instead, he had re-buried it, and he had taken down another box from the shelves – one he'd found while cleaning things out the day Fornell had come to ask him for help hunting down an old fugitive, just a few months after the coma.

He had taken Kelly's Strawberry Shortcake doll out of it, and brought it with him here.

"Gibbs?" Emily said cautiously. "Gibbs?"

He looked up, and then lifted the doll slowly.

"What's that?" she asked.

He cleared his throat.

"You mind taking care of this for me?" he asked her seriously. "She needs a home."

Emily looked thrilled. She reached out, but Gibbs held up his hand, and took the black marker from his pocket. He put two dots on Strawberry Shortcake's hips, and pointed to them.

"That's where the bone marrow is coming from," he said gruffly. He pointed to her Raspberry Rum Tart doll, perpetually next to her in bed. He indicated a spot on her arm. "That's where it goes in you."

Emily took the pen quickly and marked Raspberry, tossing the pen down onto her colour book.

"I'll take care of her, Gibbs," she said earnestly. "Is she yours?"

He held Strawberry Shortcake out to Emily.

"She was my little girl's," he said quietly. "She loved her a lot, Em."

Emily took the doll.

"I didn't know you had a little girl," Emily said bluntly. "How come I don't get to meet her?"

His lips twitched sadly.

"She died, Emily," he said gently. "She was in a car accident."

Emily closed her mouth, and looked at him with big, luminous blue eyes – Kelly's blue eyes; _his_ blue eyes. She threw herself towards him, almost falling off the bed, and hugged him around the neck.

"Oh my gosh," she whispered. "Agent Gibbs, _no_."

He held her cautiously, wary of hurting her. He appreciated the hug, though, and he closed his eyes a moment, letting himself remember what it was like to hug a daughter. He smiled into her thin shoulder and patted her shoulder.

"It's okay, Em," he said gruffly.

Emily sat back, and she held Strawberry Shortcake close to her. Then, she bit her lip, and she picked up Raspberry Rum Tart.

"Can we trade?" she asked quietly.

He took the doll gingerly, looking at it thoughtfully. He gave Emily Kelly's doll, and Emily in turn, gave him hers. It seemed – like a strange bit of symbolism. He smiled at Emily, and nodded, agreeing.

She leaned forward again, and touched his face.

"Gibbs?" she asked.

He arched his brows.

"Thank you for my bone marrow," she said.

He smiled a little. It was an interesting thing for her to thank him for – considering.

_Thank you for my life,_ he heard.

* * *

He woke up in a dull hospital room, lethargic and nauseous from general anesthesia; he woke up slowly, like he was being dragged to it – unlike when he'd awoken from his coma, confused, in pain, and terrified. He sat forward slowly, blinking, and then, spotting a bucket by the bed, grabbed it and vomited, the room spinning. It took him a moment to register that the noise he was hearing as he set the bin aside – was laughter.

He swallowed, sitting up, and he was handed a glass of water – he blinked into focus as he drank, and it was Jenny; sitting by his bed, laughing.

"I've never seen you get sick before," she said, amused.

He put aside the water, clearing his throat, waiting a moment to catch his bearings.

"Don't get used to it," he managed.

She smiled, and he noticed she was holding the doll. She saw his look, and handed it to him. He took it, looking down at it, at the black spot on its arm.

"Emily?" he asked.

Jenny lifted her shoulders.

"They started her on the machines to give her your cells about an hour ago," she said. "Your procedure went fine. No work for a week, then you're fine."

Gibbs snorted. He was going back tomorrow, he didn't give a damn if his back hurt like hell. He leaned forward, rubbing his eyes, setting the doll aside, and Jenny leaned over, resting her arms on the clean bed sheets.

"I thought you might need a ride home," she said mildly. "This procedure is same-day discharge."

He hadn't thought about that, and she sensed that in his posture. She cracked a small smile, and wriggled her keys a little.

"You'll never guess who called me."

He looked at her, his old partner, and she arched a brow.

"Diane."

He laughed, in disbelief, and then he saw that she was serious. He shook his head, incredulous – maybe this was a peace offering. Maybe Diane could put their disastrous marriage behind her, now.

He moved, and winced, his bones aching. He groaned a little, and Jenny leaned back, letting out a breath that blew bangs out of her face.

"Want some Jell-O?" she asked lightly.

He looked at her, and smirked.

* * *

He was out of the hospital gown and back in his clothes, moving slowly because of the bruises and punctures on his lower back and hips. He was ready to get out of this place – the clean, white halls, the antiseptic smells – but he had one stop:

Emily's room.

Fornell and Diane stepped out. Jenny walked past without a word or a glance, waiting at checkout demurely; staying out of it. Gibbs looked at the two of them expectantly, and Fornell cleared his throat.

"She's asleep," he said. "She's got no fever, no sign of infection. Machine's still workin' on her," he said, and then put his hand to his jaw, pausing. "She's, uh. It looks like she's responding like we want her to."

Gibbs smiled, and Diane did too. She looked exhausted, but she looked more at peace than she had in a long time, and for that, Gibbs was glad. He looked through the door at Emily, curled around Strawberry Shortcake, still covered with tubes and wires, but safely asleep.

He felt – at peace. He felt more at peace than he had in a long time, and maybe it was because these past few weeks hadn't been about loss; maybe it was because he had been able to help Maddie Tyler, to save her, for Kelly – and he had been able to save Emily Fornell, and he felt fixed – he knew he had to take it easy while his removed bone marrow replenished itself, but maybe that was good; maybe it was healing him.

He had spent the years since Shannon and Kelly's death wondering why he had to live through it – and maybe this was why. Maybe – all of _this_ was why. Because he could help people; he could save people, and there were people who _needed_ the love he'd been hoarding for the dead.

Diane cleared her throat, and Fornell took a deep breath.

"What do we do?" he asked bluntly, looking between them. He met Gibbs' eyes. "She's yours, Jethro," he said, resigned. "I had the doctor confirm it."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders.

"Ah, hell, Tobias," he said. "You raised her."

"You saved her, Jethro," he said.

He held out his hand, and Gibbs took it, shaking it firmly. Fornell looked at Diane, and at his friend, his jaw set.

"Do we tell her?" he asked. "What do we do?" he repeated.

There was a long silence.

"No," Diane said finally.

She took a deep breath.

"No," she repeated.

Gibbs said nothing; Fornell nodded – he looked relieved, and Gibbs – Gibbs thought that was for the best. For now, at least. It might cause problems down the road – if Emily ever found out – but for now, there was no need to complicate her already hard life; she needed some peace, some stability – and upheaval like this … it wasn't peaceful.

Fornell went into her room, and left Gibbs to Diane.

She looked at him, and then looked away, biting her lip. When she looked back, there were tears on her cheeks, and her lips shook as she parted them.

"Leroy," she said hoarsely. "I understand," she said. "And I'm – I'm so sorry."

Her empathy was sincere, and it was the first time he accepted sympathy with grace – he knew she meant it; she wasn't telling him to get over it, she was telling him she had an inkling of what the grief felt like.

She moved suddenly, and took his hand, placing something in it. When he looked down, it was his grandfathers watch.

He nodded. He stepped forward, close to her, and set his jaw.

"She's really somethin', Annie," he said hoarsely. Emily – fighter Emily, who was on her way to beating cancer, and had smiled as much as she could through most of it. He swallowed hard, and caught her eye. "Take care of her."

Diane nodded, and spontaneously, he reached out and he hugged her, resting his forehead against hers for a moment. She kissed him on the corner of his mouth, and he pecked her cheek chastely, smiling and squeezing her shoulder as he pulled away.

Diane walked in to Emily's room, and he headed towards Jenny.

He tucked Raspberry Rum Tart under his arm, and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his fingers curling into the chains of the old watch he'd missed – he thought of Emily's luminous blue eyes, and the hug she'd given him.

_It's not your fault,_ he told himself silently. _Kelly and Shannon._

"Jethro?" Jenny asked.

She put her hand on his arm, and he took her fingers in his. Her hand shook, and she winced, but said nothing, and he left the hospital with her, without another word.

He hoped – that he'd been able to give Emily the kind of life Kelly had lost.

* * *

_ending right around **Lost & Found**, as it were. -note that episodes were included to orient you as to Gibbs' emotional state during the interwoven, added story of the Emily thing, and to as the timeline I've been using in this story._

_-Alexandra_

_*note: the epilogue takes place during "Devil's Triad," season 11._


	6. Epilogue

**IMPORTANT:** Generally, I do not like to do author's notes in epilogues or prologues, but considering the vast amount of flak I've gotten for this story, I feel it's warranted: several people have admonished/chastised me for "claiming this story is canon" - here's the thing: **I never said this story was canon. **I said, and I quote (and it is clearly written in the first chapter) that this is a story **"INTERWOVEN INTO CANON"** and **"MAKING USE OF CANON EPISODES" **which means: This is a FICTIONAL story that I decided to place alongside what was ACTUALLY HAPPENING in the show - telling me that I can't call episodes that aired canon is preposterous. I used specific episodes, and specific scenes from those episodes: to call those "AU" would have been plagiarism, and an insult to the writers who crafted them. My story, anything made-up about the Fornells and Emily, is operating on the vastly conflicting information given to us (for example, the change of Emily's hair from blonde to red - the fact that her age was not established until Season 10, the fact that Gibbs dates of marriage have NEVER been established, etc.) - those things, since NCIS never confirms them to the average viewer, are flexible - now, there are some people who've told me they have special contact with the writers and have all this "confirmed" information - -that's fantastic, but as I'm not super special and I'm not privileged enough to be told things like this, expecting me to adhere to secret canon only some people have is frankly, absolute bullshit. I have used the same formula in writing this story that I used in writing Mishpokhe, and not a SINGLE person threw a fit about that story - so to reiterate: I have NEVER claimed what I've written here is "canon" - I said I was molding my story into canon. If you misunderstood that, I apologize, but it is about damn time that some of us (including me) get off our high horses about canon as it regards fanfiction: if we all liked canon exactly how it was, we wouldn't write.

* * *

_December 13, 2013_

* * *

It was a lot of hard work, mediating family struggles in the midst of a murder case, and though he had experience with both, the actual experience in this case was stressful and remarkable in an unprecedented nature, because he knew the family so well -

He looked down at the expensive bottle of bourbon he'd been given just moments ago, eyeing the sleek red ribbon tied around the neck, and cracking a small smile.

- to think, Diane and Tobias, asking for his _blessing_.

He was stretched thin when it came to them – these past few days had been mass chaos, soap-opera-ish – when one got into Diane's romantic pursuits – and even terrifying at moments, but it was over now; Emily was the victor of the day, safe with her parents, and he was home alone, with a bottle of good bourbon.

He untied the ribbon; resting his hand over the top for a moment. His front door opened, and he looked up, silently praying that it wasn't the two of them again – but he was pleasantly surprised.

"Hey, Em," he greeted.

The thirteen-year-old stood in his doorway for a moment, and then smiled, and shut the door behind her.

"You know, they even argued over that," she said, tilting her head at the bottle of whiskey. "I was in the store with them. They couldn't remember which brand."

"Who got it right?" Gibbs asked gruffly, as she came out of the shadows.

She had a book bag over her shoulder, and a thick purple headband in her hair. It reminded him of one Kelly used to have.

"Mom," she said, shrugging.

The bag slipped off her shoulder a little, and she reached to adjust it.

"Shouldn't you be with them?" Gibbs asked, narrowing his eyes.

She grinned.

"I think they could use a dinner alone, to sort themselves," she said, and she couldn't keep the smile off of her face. "I thought," she paused, but she seemed confident. She rummaged in her bag, and pulled out a DVD. "I thought we could watch _African Queen_ again."

He pushed the bottle away, and sat forward a little, relenting. He inclined his head to show her he was game, but held up his hand.

"Your parents know where you are?" he asked sternly.

She nodded. He beckoned her over. She dropped her bag and went to the TV to set up the DVD – just like she had two nights ago, when she'd come running from the mess her parents had made.

He got up and went towards the kitchen.

"Want somethin' to drink?" he asked. "Think I got some soda."

"I could use some whiskey after they day I've had…"

"Cute, Emily," he growled, deadpan.

She giggled. Soda was fine, and he got her one, tossing it to her. She took a seat at the kitchen table while the previews for the movie played, and he sat down across from her with a beer in hand, eyes on hers.

"Got any popcorn?" she asked.

"Got fish food," he countered.

She sighed.

"I can order Chinese," she murmured, and sat forward, curling her hands around her coke.

He watched her a moment – she had such a pretty face, and she was still at that age where she didn't feel the need to obscure it with pounds of make-up. She didn't have freckles, and her nose was a distinct replica of her mother's, but her eyes – were still so blue, and he liked to remember that.

He tilted his head.

"You okay with this?" he asked. "Your parents, back together?"

"It's every kid's dream, right?" she answered. "Like the Parent Trap come true." She pointed. "I'm even a redhead."

Gibbs tilted his beer towards her.

"Didn't used to be," he remembered.

She nodded, chewing on her lip – her hair was so long now, down to her chest; long, thick, and healthy – and she rarely ever cut it. She said it was because short hair made her nervous – but she'd been cancer free since she was eight years old, with fresh, strong bone marrow keeping her going.

It had come back auburn-red, when it had come back, and sometimes when he looked at her, with those blue eyes and that reddish hair, he wondered if Kelly would have looked something like this at thirteen.

He smiled a little. Emily sighed. She wrinkled her nose.

"I think they owe me," she said primly. "When I was sick, I thought they'd get back together, just to make me feel better."

Gibbs didn't mention that the reason Diane and Fornell's probable reconciliation had evaporated after Emily's cancer had gone away was because of the communication problems and frustrations they'd been unable to shake over Emily's paternity – but over the years, that had died out.

Gibbs hadn't pried, he hadn't hovered; he hadn't inserted himself into Emily's life anymore than he had been before, except he'd occasionally babysat more. They had continued with their decision not to tell her – and it had been best, particularly considering Diane's romantic decisions since the cancer had been eradicated – Emily had needed the stability of having one father, the one she'd always known.

Emily took a sip of her soda, and then got up, rummaging through her backpack again, and bringing something back over to the table. She sat a doll in the table in front of her, holding it upright.

"I found her, in my room at Dad's," she said.

He was looking at Strawberry Shortcake, even older and more worn than she had been six years ago.

"Do you remember?" Emily asked.

"'Course," he answered, and pointed at his back. "Still got the scars."

Emily beamed. She put the doll in her lap, and held it close.

"You still have Raspberry Rum Tart?"

He nodded slowly. That doll sat on a shelf next to his tools – never moved, always watched over him. Emily beamed at his answer, and leaned forward, one elbow on the table.

She gave him an intent look.

"How long were you married to Mom?" she asked.

He looked back, taken by surprise.

"Two years," he grunted.

"So shorter than my parents were together," Emily murmured.

He was about to ask why, when she laughed.

"I was just thinking – what if she'd decided to get back together with _you_?"

Gibbs gave her a wary look – what an unfortunate thing to think about, and what a strangely ironic thing for Emily to mention. Diane's – recent entanglements with Fornell, her divorce from Victor Sterling, and that other boyfriend, had provided ironic – Gibbs knew her remark about 'innocent overlap' had pissed off Tobias, if only because the last 'innocent overlap' resulted in Emily.

Emily laughed, and shook her head. She bit her lip, and tilted her head, long hair distracting him a moment – he liked her hair. It reminded him she was healthy; she was safe.

"Gibbs," she said thoughtfully.

"Em," he retorted seriously.

She blinked. She smirked.

"I always thought it was magic, that you and I had matching bone marrow," she said quietly. She licked her lips. "I believed in magic, a long time." She cocked her head. "We've been learning about hereditary genetics in biology," she said.

Gibbs cocked his eyebrow. The menu screen on the DVD began playing music.

"Eye colour, blood types," Emily said. "I know way too much about my own blood, because I had leukemia," she said. She swallowed, and tilted her head. "Dad's blood type is O. Mine's AB, so it's strange," she trailed off.

Gibbs peeled the label on his beer; he didn't look away, because he didn't want to admit anything – but this was dangerous territory; he didn't have permission to go here, and he didn't intend to.

Emily simply laughed quietly, and shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I kinda figure … well, Dad gave me so much blood, I have to have O now," she laughed. And then she hesitated. "And family … is blood _and_ bone…marrow."

Gibbs smiled at her a little.

Emily put Strawberry Shortcake on the table, and squeezed her.

"Did your daughter have blue eyes, Uncle Gibbs?" she asked.

He hesitated, meeting Emily's – Emily's, Kelly's, the eyes were one and the same, and he stumbled for a moment, over what to say – my daughter _had_ blue eyes, my daughter _has_ blue eyes.

He nodded, his eyes on Emily's long hair, her healthy, earnest face – and he swallowed hard, glad that her eyes would stay blue.

* * *

_December 13, 2013_

* * *

_._


End file.
